


Tantalize

by Sonya_and_Co



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7133900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonya_and_Co/pseuds/Sonya_and_Co
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An extended Sigil-Ridden Navigator's story, because some Officers deserve a happy ending, dammit.<br/>Currently under major re-write</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kingeater's Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: E

_Pennington._

Captain calls everyone to their cabin and produces a tiny key. Zailors shift incredulously. 

"You may."

Their cabinet is full of riches. There are bottles of Mushroom wine. Rum from sugar cane of Aestival. Some small anonymous flasks, smuggled from the Surface. 

“Cook!”

The bandaged figure moves its mustache.

“Make special dinner.” - A wink. - “We’re coming home!”

Months of hunger, encounters with zee-monsters, deaths of their friends melt away from their shoulders.

 _Home._   The word is better than any feast, warmer than any drink. They roll it on their tongues. There are lights of Wolfstack docks in their pupils. They clap and sing and whistle as you help Captain to pass the bottles. 

The sigil moves a thonged tendril down your cheek, trying to tear it open.

The sound of glass breaking. The shards at your feet seem blurry.

_Thank Gods, it’s mere ale._

Captain whispers something to Maybe’s Daughter and gives her the last flask. She nods and smiles. 

You barely manage to reach them.

“Captain…”

They pat your shoulder, offhandedly brush your sigil.

“Soon.”

It calms down a little.

 

The stones gnaw zee-shanties and spit empty echoes. The place is hungry. 

The warm vessel sways among oily waves. You stop. Do you want to come back? To stay on this old wreck till the sigil devours you to the end?

Captain puts their hand on your shoulder. Their lips twitch. Their teeth gleam impatiently. 

_This home isn’t yours, and neither is the family._

The great stone hearts loom over you. Is it the pain, or their veins seem to pulse?

Captain lights the torches and smokes from the flame. You remember the first dinner when you chewed the embarrassment, as their words scattered around the table, all over the floor. You wish they filled the silence.

They don't. They simply order you to undress.

You tense. You obey with your back to them, looking at freezing stone and caked blood… Captain never stops watching.

The slab was designed for creatures much bigger than you. You shiver, though there is no wind in this place.

_The air is thick with Terror._

Captain sits by your side. The smoke floats out of their nostrils. They snuff their cigarette out mere inches away from your neck. Their fingers run down your throat, outline the ribs, tap the middle of your chest.

_Veins… Lungs…Heart…The ancient whereabouts of a human soul._

They smile. Their teeth seem off...

Hard edges press into your spine. The old knife is sharp and ready in your hand.

They whisper, tying your wrists to the altar.

About the long journey, about all the wasted food, people and fuel. You nod... You don't quite understand...

"Don't I deserve a little reward?"

The knife is pried away.

They step aside as you watch in horror.

There was a similar vision the crew had after an encounter with a Monkey Foundling. A tall angular figure. No excesses. No soft curves. Long damp mane which never knew a comb. Zailors chose to dismiss it as a silly dream after some odd fruit. Your sigil chose to remember.

The old uniform lies on the stones. So does the formless knitted coat.

They move quickly. You don't have time to say that it’s not the part of rite, not what you asked for.

 _They offered it before didn't they? Why did they laugh when you refused, why did they laugh?_  

You reach for their hand. It enfolds your wrist, grip strong as shackle. The blade flutters up your chest and stops at the throat. You don’t think of fighting anymore.

Dry hair prickles you. A little scratch here, a tiny bite there. Clumsy movements of the hips… Something under the methodical roughness of a former urchin. The desire to study you to the last twitch.

You grip the slab edge till your knuckles are white, trying to breath. The pounding ache in your head grows steadily. In your stomach, the red fog tendrils beg for attention.

A hungry look from underneath the straw-colored bangs, and Captain moves away. You feel like crying.

_Yes, yes I shall help you if you guide my ship to Gaider’s Mourn._

_Yes, I will take you where you want, when we reach Venderbight._

They kept it out of reach as you stomached your way through the pain. That's the way they are. That's the way Captains are. Every time you tell yourself not to trust them and every time you fail. Perhaps, if you make it out of here you should have the warning tattooed on your working arm…

You half-notice something bright in your Captain’s hand.

_Slash._

It cuts through the thick fog, pulls it apart thread by thread and reveals the pleasure underneath. Bright as golden air and waxen wind. Certainly the last. The sigil shrinks away in fear and finally releases your poor head.

Captain gives you a flash of wetly glistening teeth.

You smile back and laugh, a small shattered sound that gets louder as the pain nibbles at your chest, as drops of blood swell on the wound.

You laugh at the faces of Gods who have forsaken you, at the face of something that watches indifferently as its altar is fouled. You don’t belong to any of them. This thing on top of you is your only master. Now and forever.

The skin comes off as easily as present wrapping.

Captain peels the muscles away with teeth and fingers, preserves some for later feasts. They watch and stroke the revealed organs, then dip their hands into the gash, spreading the red-spotted coils.

Your intestine and stomach are the first to go. Carefully bound, cut out and thrown aside. Useless, inedible, but perhaps your not-so human companions can enjoy them.

The flesh makes a squishy sound under the knife.

Liver - gone. Kidneys - missing. Ribs - broken, with minimal effort.

The bloodied mane falls on your face.

Captain bends down.

They give your heart a wet hungry kiss. You expect a bite. Hell, you almost  _want_  it.

It is carved out gently, meticulously. Captain strokes it like something alive and fragile, like a terrified animal taken out of its cage.

You laughter is reduced to hysterical sobs.

Your lungs are pulled out. 

They yank you by the ribs to a more-or-less sitting position. Their face is close. You fell their palm on the back of your head.  

_Are they going to empty the skull too?!_

They kiss you deeply. You taste their lion-breath, the leftover pieces of your own chewed meat. Your body convulses, though there is no stomach to empty. When they allow you to fall back, you breathe deeply, trying and failing to get this damn **_smell_   **out of your body.

They smile and turn your head to get a better look at the sigil.

_It’s almost over._

The first copy takes awhile. Captain is incredibly precise with all the thorns... Your right arm feels odd. Something starts to course through its nearly empty veins. Something alien and violet and warm. 

The second one goes a bit faster, and soon you are left with dead stumps in place of your arms. You don’t care anymore. All you do is watch and listen.

The good jolly echoes of your ship are not heard, or, maybe you’re simply deaf - two copies more just under the ribs.

The torches around the altar shine dimly. You look at them till the world is reduced to tar-darkness. The light is warm and rich like flames of a full oven.

Suddenly, you remember.

The face of your brother. The way he struggled as his throat was slit. The smell of meat cooking. The taste of a stew.

_Not him, not him, please, not him! He did nothing do deserve it! You did, it’s your sin!_

Then, years of begging for forgiveness, years of endless prayers. Waiting… Waiting. Searching for your note with freezing fingers only to find it untouched.

And then the Smiling Priest, his quiet nods. Yes, yes, everyone makes mistakes. Silver needles. Bottles of ink.

The last voice you hear is the one of your Captain rasping in your ear and your own cowardly whisper:

_\- It is not forgiveness… But perhaps it is justice._

You cease to exist.

 

* * *

 

You fumble through your coat for tobacco and paper, roll a cigarette and smoke in silence. 

_Don’t look at the altar._

There was a moment, when the guilt, the torment in his eyes were enough to swerve you. There was a desire to drop a knife, to hug him close and lead him back to your ship, and keep him until he forgets his name. Any man or woman you know would do exactly that. 

But you aren’t one of them. Not anymore. 

_Don’t listen to slow wet footsteps._

Something embraces you, its skin cold and slick and inhuman against your back, fingers locked on your chest. There are red rope traces on its wrists. The cigarette falls from your fingers. You watch indifferently as this small speckle of light dies at you feet. It feels bland. Everything will after what you’ve done. When you come home and look at your wife you’ll wonder what she might look like on the inside. 

_Don’t turn around._

The voice is quiet, whispery, spider-silk soft. The kind one has after a long death. 

"Thank you, Captain. I am at home."

You wander back hand in hand. The bundle you cling to drips blood.

You go below decks. The things follows quietly.

The crew still celebrates when you enter the dining cabin... Then goes quiet. They look at you. Expressions vary from mild disgust to sheer horror.

You glance around, notice the one you need.

"Cook."

He looks up from his mug of rum.

"I'll need the kitchen."

He follows you, muttering something under his breath. The crew whispers behind him.

 

The cook grumps in his mustache as you hustle between the pots. Something about underestimation of his culinary skills and proper ways to prepare human meat. You don’t listen.  

The thing sits in the corner and watches as he speaks. In its hands is an open sachet of Mutersalt. Sometimes it dips its fingers into the crystalline powder, licks a few grains. Smiles. The mere innocence of its smile makes you shiver. 

"Captain…" 

You swear you’ll forbid it to speak. You raise your eyes from a full pot and glare at it. 

"May I try some?"

It’s just being curious. Nothing deserving a slit throat or a torn out tongue. 

You breathe out and search for the second spoon.

 

The dinner (or a very early breakfast?). You push an empty plate aside. You don’t feel as satisfied as you thought you would. The creature savors the flesh of your officer and spits it out in a napkin.

There is an odd nagging ache in your chest. You stand up, walk to your cabinet and search for a small empty box with golden letters:

“Invictus Token”

You stroke the blue velvet inside.

Losing the captaincy of your soul has given you so much and taken even more. So much waste. So many worlds you combed through...   

You wish you did not.

You wish you did not see the world where he read his confession and turned himself in the moment you reached London. They had to bring a chair for him to reach the noose. You watched as he prayed, his lips quivering, until the hemp tightened around his neck and he could pray no more. The executioner was merciful. He swung the little struggling body just so. Enough to break the neck.

Or the world where he became a monk in Codex, and when you came to check on him, he couldn’t recognize you and his mouth was forever shut.

Or the world where he sold his soul for a filthy hut and a table of crockery to some many-souled monkey, who wouldn’t even cherish what it got. When you came back a year later you found his hut empty. Things not much unlike you took him for their feast. You poisoned these bastards and laughed as you cut their souls out.

_Maybe there is one more possibility you’ve missed? The only outcome where he finds absolution?_

The lid falls back.         

\- So… What do you want from me, Captain?

You grip the porcelain drawer knob. The uncertainty. The precision of his usual intonations. The thing is learning to mimic him, and learning fast. You will the pain down, turn around and smile to it.

It nervously reaches for its throat. _His_ throat. Your smile grows wider.

_So that’s where it is._

You take a step towards it. The thing speaks, voice quick and terrified. It begs. It claims to know the zee, to _be_ the zee in some way. It won’t lead you astray, like he would. It will be useful, it will be true, like he never could. You grab it by the collar and yell at his face. 

_Look in the eyes. See the sick glow. It’s not him. It’s not._

You feel faint. Sobs swell up inside you. You do not try to toughen it out. You weep, and weep, and weep, silently, palm pressed to your mouth.

The thing blinks dully as your tears fall on its cheeks.

\- Captain… You are melting…

It is not mocking. Somehow, you pull yourself back together.

Just a confused parasite, trying to mimic its host. Pathetically inhuman. Not worth your wrath.

You brush your fingers against its growing sigil. It pulses slightly.       

 _“You will not have anything to suffer with. It will be gone. And whatever remains… Will serve me”_         

Tomorrow, you will test its knowledge. 

There is a good craftsman in Iron Republic, who can put its empty ribcage to use. After all, there is no such thing as too many cabinets. As for now… With blood cleaned up, it is quite pleasantly cool.

You spend the night with the thing curled up by your side. There is no breath, no tossing and turning. Just a violet glow, calming and perfect against Nightmares…

_The Terror is at bay._


	2. The Iron Republic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: T

Seven thick drops. Blood unfolds its translucent ribbons.

You look into the knots and junctions, find a tiny black bead – the vessel. You travel up the first major intersection. The second ribbon to the right looks plausible, but thin - the stream is dying quickly. Three degrees South-East. It will take about two weeks just to get you to Gaider’s Mourn.

_Slow. Too slow. What will Captain say?_

Fear is a good lash. You quickly search through other red threads… The one to the West is strong enough. Five days, maybe less.

As the paths fade in the water, you bandage the cut and preserve the course with pencil and paper – human memory is less reliable than their funny tools. This course will take more coal…

_But what do these funny black pebbles mean, compared to Gant’s approval._

This is ridiculous. Captain does not have a single drop of Gant in their heart. And here you are, a substance as ancient as some Judgments, mortified, enslaved by mere…

“How is the course?”

You flinch and turn around. You mumble something about the currents, even though you know that they do not listen, and sheepishly ask where Captain would like to go from the Iron Republic.

“London. Don’t need your help with that, thank you.”

They do not bother looking at you. Their posture makes you want to retreat to your sigil, and stay there, till the days pass.

“These currents we follow. Not on any maps, are they?”

Of course they are not on any of the maps designed by beings with insights of a clam. It is really a wonder how vessels manage to get this far in the Unterzee without getting hopelessly lost.

“I know some signs. The movements of beasts, the position of zee-lilies… But I can’t see the whole picture.”

You ask about these signs. Captain’s wandering gaze touches the walls, the instruments and focuses on you. They speak, reluctantly at first, but soon their voice becomes smoother, more flowing. They ruffle their hair, when they try to recollect some names and coordinates. You are no longer afraid of their scarce movements. Instead, you are  _thrilled._ Perhaps, you have always wondered what it feels like - to be devoured, reduced to the emptiness of many shadows. Perhaps, you are simply infected by leftover humanity.

“Now.”

Their voice turns swift and sharp.

“Tell me about your tricks.”

You do your best. Good Gods, why do you have to use so many words?! They sift through your teeth like sand, they will not stick together, but _somehow_ they manage to make Captain’s eyes shine with the new understanding. Relieved, you allow yourself a moment to clench these stupid aching fingers… Captain takes you by the wrists.

“Come back.”

Captain presses their lips to your knuckles. You quickly search the memories for a proper response, and find nothing. You merely sit and feel the moist breath on your fingers. Pleasant… But still rather alarming.

And then, all of the sudden, they look away. Their grip turns indifferent and cold.

“To work, Navigator”

They leave. You sit in silence, confused and… Frustrated? Yes, this is the word.

You spend nights watching his memories, working on your humanity. You do a much better job as the First Mate, yet still, _still_   this is not enough. It is a pity, that such soul gets so emotional over this lump of guilt. You wish you had the courage to tell them that the chance of him returning is insignificant. That if they want to, you can give your body any temperature of their choice. In fact, you do not mind exploring the messier sides of human existence.

But thoughts come about another eternity in ice, or another long, tedious battle…

You return to maps and pencils.   

_Van Horn Harbour._

Creatures on shore brush their skins and mold their bones into those of crew’s worst nightmares: there are children with their fingers cut off and infants squashed into pancakes by carriage wheels. Plagued men and women, zailors mummified with hunger and terror. Presbyterate Adventuress glares at some waving crone - an ancient thing in tattered navy uniform, wrapped in arms of a cindered corpse.  It takes a single shot. They fade into mist before they can touch the sand.

One of the remaining creatures notices you and shifts its scales, swift as chameleon. It becomes the color of old bone, washed and zalted by zee, flesh long eaten… Captain looks away from a pale child and a pale woman - both dressed smartly for the funeral - and nudges you to go.

The creature continues to watch you.

 

A craftsman - a ruddy-cheeked and lively fellow - jokes with some Deviless, who came there for a particularly smart umbrella. She giggles and covers her mouth with a lacy fan. You hope you will not stay here for long.        

“Here it is. A blade in a handle as sharp as your lovely horns”

He pecks her on the nose and she leaves with some spider-silk monstrosity in her arms, grinning like an idiot. The craftsman smiles to your Captain - a full set of pearly teeth on a soot-greased face.

“Ree, sweet Ree, long time no see!” He remembers himself and gives a joking salute. “Sorry. Captain Ree, long time no see! I thought you had forgotten all about me.”

Captain’s eye roll speaks volumes.

“Come on, tell me one of your tales, you know, the ones with blood and marrow”

The whisper is long and undecipherable. But you watch as the color slowly disappears from the craftsman’s face, as his wide grin withers. In the end, he shivers like a wet dog.

“Anyway, what brings you here?”

Your Captain has a chance to makes an order. The craftsman nods and whistles.

“A ribcage-cabinet? Possible, possible. Give me a week, and you’ll have the cabinet worthy of Her Enduring Majesty.  So, where are the old bones?”

You roll up your shirt and undo the threads of the long vivisection scar. He nearly jumps with delight.

“By Stone! A reanimated carcass?!”

He paces round you, handles the hanging patches of skin, tickles your ribs, dips his hand into an empty cavity to grope the spine.  You do your best not to push him away.

“By Stone…” He takes your pulse. “The circulation is active, even with the heart missing! How did you manage to achieve it, anyway?”

Captain quietly asks him to leave the sigils in peace. His eyes widen, big as china plates.

“Correspondence magic… How bold! And is this wonderful specimen still sentient? Can it speak?”

_Specimen. It. Pig. Treasure. Never a person. Not once in my life._

You freeze. The voice is weak, almost a whisper, but it is _not_   the memory, and it is _not_ your thought. 

_Oh Judgments…_

“Can it?”

“Yes, I can speak, and I can think, and I would rather you did not use the pronoun ” _it_ “,  thank you”

He stares at you, his mouth gaping. Behind his back, your Captain looks surprised and content. For once, you do not care.

 

The craftsman bustles around you with devil-bone and copper, screwdrivers and clippers, and he will. not. keep. his. mouth. shut.

You fancy the idea of reducing his memories to an infant state, but choose to ignore his trivial questions about Neath-magic. It is really a wonder how these beings did not get killed in the first stages of evolution. Finally, he falls silent and starts to hum some hellish tune.

Much better. Much more difficult not to fall asleep.

You close your eyes. It is fine, sleep is a neutral territory. Nobody can control over dormant body. And, even if he still exists, what kind of a threat can a death-shattered mind be?

It is wonderful, drifting away... You dream of peopleless times when you lived in the violet cave and the violet fog. As you start to enjoy the dawning unconsciousness, something scrapes against your thoughts, pulses… And goes still.

The long, calm hour flows by.

The awaking is confusing - especially this fleeting moment on the verge of it, when you are lost and unaware of who, or where you are. Somebody struggles to rise, with all the desperation of the drowning man stepping on the back of his less fortunate comrade. You will him down.

You wake up, with the pain in your chest, the blood rushing, the leftover sweat seeping from every pore.

“A bad dream?”

May Judgments help you not to erase this man by the time your Captain comes.

Calm. It is not much of a task, willing down a loitering bum, who walks around your brain. Death has exhausted him, so he spends most of the time watching his old memories.

_But he is still alive and still a bother._

Calm. Some day, he will learn to live as a parasite.

Like you once did.

 

“How’s your head?”

A woman with a hairstyle of a school-teacher and a voice of a colonel calls you.

Strange… Even though memories of her consist of her yelling and scolding your current husk, they are very positive. One of the human quirks, you presume.

“Good. Thank you.”

Her eyes narrow into slits.

“Do I look like a fool to you?”

She definitely does not. She looks like someone very insightful and very dangerous, and you would love to stay away from her as far as it is possible on this tiny vessel.

“A permanent migraine can’t just disappear into thin air. What did you do?”

“Madam, please do not yell at me. I really do not like being yelled at.”

She shakes her head and adjusts her glasses. The golden rims glisten judgingly.

“You and our lovely Captain can feed tales to the crew, but I will have none of that. A man goes to Kingeater’s, comes back soaked in blood and spends days glued to his chair, working like an engine. Doesn’t it sound fishy to you?”

“Well…”

“It does, and it stinks like hell! And don’t you dare to speak about this "investigation” thing. Tell me, what have they done to you?“

"Madam…”

She points a withered brown finger at your chest, and pokes you with every word.

“What. Have. They. Done. To. You.”

Something inside of you clicks and rattles. She looks at you more sternly than before and drags you into the sick-bay.

“Take off your shirt. Do it, or I swear I’ll cut you.”

You oblige, you have to oblige, it is her territory and you have no right to…

Her walking stick (a walking bone) falls from her hands.

Just a neat little cabinet. Fourteen devil-bone drawers with hidden brass handles (you would not want them pocking through your clothes) and a bunch of secret compartments for particularly important papers. Beneath, the stomach cavity is lined with leather - a perfect place to hide a bottle of human souls, or a vial of red honey.

Overall, everything is fancy and sparkling white and there is no need to look so shaken.

“Madam, please… Please, I’m better now, madam, it does not hurt, I swear!”

You try to take her by the hand. She slaps you across the wrist and glares at you. You feel ridiculously small. She leans close. You somewhat pity the devils who had to die seeing this look of wrath on her face.

“Listen up. I don’t know what kind of _thing_ you are and what you’ve done to our Navigator, but trust me: I will.”

You must admit, when not used to command her voice sounds rather nice. Beautiful, even. 

And then, she throws you out.

You rise, clutching the drawers in place. You need to have a word with the Captain. This woman does not seem to be a minor annoyance, unlike most of the crew. She knows too much, she sees too much she terrifies you.

You put your shirt on and dust your clothes.

Seems like _Tantalos_ will need another surgeon soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Irrigo floats round you, grabs a piece of knowledge needed for another instruction and gently nudges you to another section of the void.

_Go, play somewhere else._

It’s funny, feeling like a child in the midst of spring cleaning inside of your own head. Well, not your own anymore. By Neath magic standards, you have no right to complain. You got what you wanted: all your memories, safe, sound and sorted (Irrigo has an odd enjoyment of names and labels). A whole world to live in. That is what you do, ever since you became this thing - bodiless, faint and forgotten. You drift from piece to piece, collecting facts and feelings. You have enjoyed some of them twenty times in a row.

But there is one stack you never touch. You’d rather get some more bumps as a cabin boy of the _Implicit_ , than look through these ones.

_“Bonny Swan - Chapel of Lights”_

The dash burns your non-existent eyes. All the pains and fears, all joys and passions squeezed into one little line. You push it away, but it keeps coming back, it does not let you dissolve in peace. Why… Just why does it keep tormenting you?

_Because you are a whiny pushover, that’s why._

The voice is vivid. Commanding. Familiar.

_Are you going to pick epithets, or will you finally do something?!_

You are most certainly going mad in this void.

_You will, if you keep sitting here. These peop… cr… beings turned your body into a bloody cabinet! Captain stores their vital intelligence in your ribcage! Your stomach is full of mirror catch boxes!_

What can you do? Your organs are long cooked and eaten. You are nothing but a dead shell now.

_Don’t be an idiot, Navigator! Are you a man, or a jillyfleur?_

In your current position - a jillyfleur. Washed ashore in Aestival and badly dried.

_Oh, shut up. First, you pull your soul together and open these bloody memories._

You cringe. No… Please… No.

_If you know where this thing came from, you’ll figure out what to do._

But…

_There is no “but”, soldier! When I saw the woman I loved rotting away with age because **somebody** was too lazy to get a couple of coffee sacks to Khanate, you know what I did? I took our Captain by the gills and forced the bastard to sail there, that’s what!_

The voice sighs and turns eerily calm and comforting.

_Listen up, pal. In Neath, nobody is going to come and save you. You got to move your own rear. So, I’m asking you for a final time, are you a man, or a pushover?_

A man, you guess…

_So open these damn memories!_

Yes. You will.

_And don’t you dare to thank me. Not yet. Good luck…_

The voice is drowned with other sounds. The memories are opened.

Somewhere on the ship, Campaigner smiles in her sleep.


	3. Memory: The Bonny Swan - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: M

_The Kingeater’s Castle._

The memory starts with a spark. A spark turns into an ember, an ember into a flame, a flame into a small cooking fire. You see the faces around it - some familiar and vivid, some faint, like smudged ochre stains. The giant stone hearts loom over them in the grey sky.

Some zailors whisper about washier soups and scarcer dinners. The Captain’s old promise of Carnelian sapphires steadies their will, but for how long? The shadows become more and more animated, and the talks won’t stop creeping through the ship. Something grows on your thoughts - an alarming weed that drives you insane.

_The islands won’t shift. There’ll be no port._

You spoke about it with Richard. For once it seemed that you managed to break through the usual icy mask. There was no: “Sorry, got work to do”, no “Whatever you like.”. He didn’t just listen, he _believed_ you.

The Captain appears - a combed mustache and a mouth full of friendly teeth - and merrily asks about the dinner. Zailors shift to make some space for him. He receives a full bowl and sets his jaws to work with a fake relish.

Richard looks at the free place by the Captain’s side, frowns and sits as far from him as it is possible, without leaving the warm circle. The feeling of an unpleasant and long conversation hangs between them.

When you walk to him, Richard takes no notice. He sits on the invisible pedestal - high, a whole year higher than you - radiating bitter cold. You stand for a while and, when you are about to see your breath, you allow yourself to speak.

“So… Where are we going now, Richard?”

A brief glance. Panic seizes you.

_Gods, what did I do wrong this time, what did I say?_

Moron, you dare to ask? You are unworthy. Of having questions. Of being a first mate when he is a bosun. Of being born.

He lands you a final blow before turning back to his soup.

“Wherever you like.”

 

You don’t remember the weeks that followed, or the unfortunate day you set this damn course. They are all darkness and fear so great, it’s close to madness. But you remember the first death, and the first dinner…

 

Sunday. The Captain looks over his skinny congregation, counts and finally starts a sermon…

You’ve never heard it before - not much of a surprise, for you’ve never been particularly pious. But it is odd, odd, very odd…

The words, waxy and thick, stick together and drip down the walls. They make your mouth water. Is he speaking about birds? Or fish? Or wolves? You don’t know, but you recollect that the name of the Saint is shiny, oily, dead.

You look around. There is a predatory fire in some sunken eyes, including those of your brother. You let your fingers linger on the knife handle. It’s strangely warm.

By the time the Captain falls silent, the hunger awakes, the kind no zee-biscuits or boiled leather can satisfy…  It calls for something different, something rich and red.

“Hey, Jerry, won’t you be a dear and fetch us seventeen straws?”

The cabin boy returns swiftly. The Captain breaks one straw in half, then mixes it with the whole ones.

Hunger drowses Terror. All you feel is anticipation. It’s just a very grim and ancient game. Many zailors played it. Many of them survived.

You draw and breathe out. Yours is whole and Richard’s too… And so are everybody else’s.

The last straw remains, held tight in the Captain’s fist. He looks around. His lips quiver. For once, he doesn’t know what to say.

Slowly, naturally the crowd closes round him. The knives are taken out. Yours lies ready in your hand. Richard nods to you. For a moment, he seems to smile.

And then both of you start to make your way to the first row.

The struggle is short, but definitely not boring. He screams that he’ll see you all hanged, and waves his sword till someone (a lass from the Shepherd Isles, you believe) slices his left arm.

There is a scream, the clatter of the blade against the deck.

_Blood on the wind._

You stab with everyone. It’s strange… You’ve never hated the poor man, but now, oh now, it is so wonderful to tear at his flesh, to watch him bleed, to see him terrified and lost. The victorious lass slits his throat. Richard slams the knife in his gut. Somebody guesses to fetch the cups and some leftover zalt.

You take your time drinking, while the former captain bleeds out and his chest stops heaving. Two zailors get to work, flaying the carcass and preparing the meat for cooking.

The blood is nourishing to say the least, and the taste is so **_vivid_**.  The lass laughs as you gag and cough.

“Don’t drink too much, zir. You aren’t used to it.”

Richard takes the cup out of your hands, pats you on the shoulder… And  _asks_ :

“Are you all right?”

You stare at him in disbelief. You’ve just helped to butcher your Captain, and you don’t know how much this will buy you all, but for now you are more than all right. For now, you are the happiest pig on the whole Zee.

 

You sit down with a bowl of thick broth, calm and quiet… And then you barely make it to starboard and grace the waves with semi-digested blood.

You stand on shaky feet with a shaky stomach. The realization lies heavy on your shoulders.

_We’ve dined with this man. He told us about his wife and kids and his friends. We saw him drunkenly flirting with Catties. And now, we all sit around, eating him and his panther chews his brains and liver._

You half-notice the lass tugging your brother’s sleeve. He grumps something, and she nudges him in the ribs angrily. He favors you with a glance. He walks to you with your bowl and a spoon.

“Gonna finish it?”

Your stomach growls. You mumble apologies. The hunger is impossible, but by Gods you simply can’t…

He whispers quietly enough for only you to hear him.

“We have a ship to run. So please… Take this bloody bowl, and pull yourself  _the fuck_ together.”

_Bloody, yes, now it is bloody like his clothes, and his hands, and…_

You force yourself to eat.

 

You pull yourself together, and you keep yourself that way, till the bone powder of your Captain is cooked and eaten. And then.. You know you are the one to prepare the lots.

You break one straw and hold it with the others. Your hands are shaking. Not with excitement, just with tiredness and hunger.

The lass draws one calmly, snorts, takes her knife out and looks slyly over the remaining crew. You cringe at this cheap bravado, but still walk to Richard, then to some frail old man whose name you don’t know…

“No need for that.”

You nearly jump at the words. Richard looks at his straw with a queer, blank expression. His mask is gone.

Somebody holds you down. The old man whispers:

“Sorry, zir.”

You know you have to struggle, you have to help, but do nothing as more fingers reach to grab you.

_If it came to that, what would he do if you were the one to draw the short straw? Maybe he would prickle somebody, more for an impression than for any practical purpose. But in the end, what would he do?_

You push the thought away. But stubbornly it comes back.

_He would look away._

You don’t.

He stabs one butcher, wounds two or three. The rest circle him uncertainly. Nobody wanted to go against the Captain (may Gods have mercy his soul) but, compared to him, going against Richard is most definitely a suicide.

He fights with alertness and ferocity you never saw him use…

The lass’ step is light, very light. Quietly, she goes behind his back. Quietly, she stabs him between the  ribs. He freezes for a second and puts all of his force into the last lunge…

She dodges.  

You all watch as he collapses completely, as she gives him the final token of her love.

She raises his head by the hair, slits his throat… And goes completely still.

You understand. You know the nights when she slipped into the Officers’ cabin, past the rows of bunk beds, stepped on your blanket, climbed and  _vanished_. You used to fall asleep hearing their squishy movements and muffled laughter…

The butchers hesitate before getting to work. Some zailors take off their hats. One crosses himself. They all look at Richard with same lost questioning faces.

_What are we going to do now, Richard? What are we going to do?!_

The answer comes, so sharp and cruel that you can’t help mouthing it.

“Whatever you like.”

 

You have no time to mourn him. Neither does the lass. She is too busy with rigging straws and gutting corpses. All for both of you to make it to London. And you… You try to plot the right course, while shadows crawl around your chair.        

In Wolfstack Docks, she pats your shoulder, winks:

“There’s no place like home, eh, zir? Come on, cheer up! We have a report to make!”

You stand before her, startled. Yes, as the highest-ranking survivor, you have to feed the Admiralty some story of how you managed to lose your Captain and a fair share of the crew. But what does she have to do with it?

“Come on. I’m simply repaying your brother’s… Kindness.” - she licks her lips -“Besides, for our kind it’s easier to stick together.”

You cringe at the last words, but still manage to grasp something condescending behind her bubbly composure. Maybe, she does want a little brother. Maybe, she did have fondness for your poor Richard. But more than all of that, she is afraid of you messing it up like that wretched course.

You don’t make it to the Admiralty. Somebody turns everyone in.

In the room above the Blind Helmsman, the lass spits venom, swears, kicks the chairs over.

“I knew we had to eat that rich fuck by Quaker’s Haven.”

She slams her knife into the table. By the time she manages to extract it, she is almost eerily calm. Her face glistens in the tigerish light.

“Don’t you worry. I know what to do. There one retired Captain, who can take us under his wing. You don’t mind working as, say, gardener, while it all settles, do you, zir?”

It’s not that you don’t… You _can’t_. You could live without rank and money, without work you adore. You could dine with people just as tainted as you, and bow to their lord. But you can’t live without zee-bats chirrup and the slow movement of waves far beneath your feet.

You refuse. You leave, and your frantic flight brings you to…


	4. Memory: Frostfound - Isle of Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: T

_Frostfound._

The flask is quarter full.

You drink slowly, drawing out every gulp. This brew - a hellish mixture of mushroom wine and jillyfleur poison - burns your tongue and throat, but at least it helps against this bitter cold.

You wait. You have been waiting for a year now. You don't know how long it will take - maybe months, maybe years. There are dozens of letters akin to yours.

Your current situation is quite bearable for a runaway convict. You have a job to busy hands and brains with, and just enough clothes to keep you warm. In barracks where you live nobody asks any questions. Nobody even talks to you. It's all right - for you, loneliness has never been much of a bother... But at night, when you spread out your frozen bones on snowy bed sheets, you can hear the zee murmur, mutter… It makes your mind crawl with familiar sickness.

Which is why you come to the stairs of frosted Castle every day. You stand some distance away from a bunch of beggars. Their faces and hands are nearly black with cold.

"You gotta freeze something off, friend." - says one of them - "I miss a foot. Lucy - a thumb. And here, look at our cups!"

You turn away.

Some crew passes by. Their coats keep the smell of the recent feast: saffron, cinnamon... Devil's pepper. Southern herbs, brought in secret, bought by sufficient bribes.

You scan the crowd in search of the Captain. She isn't hard to notice: dark, tall, with the voice as uneven as crystallized honey. She laughs and snuggles deeper into white furs. Her great golden earrings jiggle.

You make your way to her, muttering apologies to all the feet you step on. Her gunnery officer attempts to push you away, saying that they do not give any alms. She wipes her fingers on her scarf, as you extricate yourself.

Somehow, you manage to call the Captain.

She blinks and smiles as you shake her hand.

_Warm. Wonderfully warm._

She listens intently but her face is blank. You cannot say if you are getting through to her.

"Captain, why should we trust this fellow?" The gunnery officer leers at you. "What kind of a navigator walks around dressed like a beggar? Could be a spy for all we know!"

The Captain giggles. She reaches into the depths of her fur coat and hands you a bunch of notes and a few coins, bright and yellow as sun drops, about fifty Echoes. Then, she hugs you and welcomes you on board.

Her coat reeks of rose-oil.

 

The cabin is exceedingly lavish, a swamp of pillows of all sizes from a pug to a hound. You count at least three captivating treasures by the time you get to dessert. The rum is great and so is the strange catch, though a little less spice would make them even better. The winter outside the porthole plays a pleasant contrast to aromatic heat.

The Captain is busy with her drawers.

“Do you have time for dessert? Oh, of course you do.” 

You come to take a look. It is nothing surprising, really: just a secret compartment, most of Captains' cabinets have one.

But not many of them have a supply of red honey that could lull an elephant to everlasting sleep.

She strokes each damp vial, hums something under her breath.

“Yes, that is good.”

She takes your glass and pours five drops into your rum. Her smile has a kind of gentleness that leaves no room for refusal.

"Come on, honey. A little sip won't hurt, will it?"

It does not. Something flourishes on the tip of your tongue. The golden curios seem unbearably bright.

_The memory is full of sunshine and Surface flowers… Something tells you they are called “buttercups”. Your elder sister is teaching you to make wreaths. The flowers fall apart under your clumsy fingers, but you try again and again._

_She casts you an azure look and shows it again, slowly, step by step. You do your best to mimic her movements._

_What you get is a lamentable thing – three sad flowers weaved together, but still it makes you proud._

_The sister smiles approvingly to you._

_The happiness shines and blooms like a giant buttercup, and grows, and grows, and **grows** till…_

You wake up. The smile disappears from your lips.

_First Mate. Cannibal._

After the Sky and the Sun and the Summer, you feel unfathomably miserable. Your memories bite and burn – a hive of demented wasps.

You look around for your glass, then for your Captain and give her a sheepish pleading smile.

She breathes on one of her rings (the wedding one, you presume) and polishes it with a silken sleeve. She does not look at you. 

“Not now. You've already had your share. Take us to Gaider's Mourn, and you'll get some more.”

You can almost hear the mousetrap snap shut.

 

You lie on one of the filthy blankets, arms strewn and eyes deliberately dull. Your bliss is long gone. Every time it lasts shorter and with the growing addiction, it is not your main cause of alarm...

The punished ones limp between the bodies. They beg. They cry and tremble.

"Just a little, just one drop, old chap! I won't tell. Please...  I'll do anything... Do you want  my keep? No? Then what?  What do you want?!"

Their hands are weak and fragile. Not good for any work. The Captain definitely does **_not_   **keep these staggering pounds of leftover muscles out of mercy. You pray not to see them come in handy.

You watch as the gunnery officer crawls on all fours, giving a piggy-bank ride to an imaginary child. She has been on "Circe" for two years.

A cook feeds some coal lumps to a giddy zailor. Three years.

A chief engineer stands on her knees among half-conscious bodies and licks the syrup off a beautiful foot. Seven.

The Captain stands above them, skin maroon and glistening like an armor of a giant insect.

_Their Lady of Honey._

It is almost contagious. Their rejoicing at rare orgies, their competition for the right to be chosen for a nightly "fun". Their fearful worship.

The Lady must be appeased. She must be served, and served well, she must be brought little gifts from every shore-leave - ambers, flowers, sweets, the kind of things one gives to a moody sweetheart.

If you fail, you will see none of her generosity. Cold she will be and dumb she will be, like an abandoned hive.

You force these thoughts back into their cage. They are not helpful. At all. It's a rare moment of clarity in this theater of madness and damn you, if you don't use it for coherent thought.

Now... If the Unterzee has taught you something, it taught you that everything Captains do, they do for survival and profit.

What is the profit in feeding her cargo to a bunch of outcasts and outlaws? And what cargo! Bright, joyful and rich. It is like feeding chestnuts to pigs.

You freeze. Something clicks in your head.

_Pigs. Circe. Potion._

Once, she gave you a sample of "Zee-Pearl".

"My latest experiment" Her smile was proud and beaming. "The whole Zee in one drop."

She did not lie.

The Vision was... Captivating indeed. A shining play of North stars and nameless colors. The Terror of the vast Zee, the marvels of Distant Shores, the joys and passions of Honeyed Tongue. The whole Zee in one drop.

_Where did she get the memories? Why is not there a single zailor, who zailed with her before this voyage?_

You start to realize.

The chief engineer buries her face between Captain's legs. Zailors howl and whistle.

 

The next night, you are called to the Captain's cabin. She sits on her tasteless gilded throne, neat and fresh as a buttercup.

"Honey, I cannot quite grasp the Tiles rules..."

You start to explain, but words crawl out of your reach. On deck, some jolly ruddy-cheeked zailors dice and drink, without any thoughts of their future. Even if you tell them, they won't believe. They will laugh you off and advice you to take an extra drop for good ol' Paranoia.

"Your mind is wandering, honey."

You apologize. Mumble something about the weather.

She laughs and tries to shove her many ringed hand between your legs.

You give her a helpless look. She pats your shoulder instead.

"Oh, honey, don't be such a prude! You know that men are not my line of work. I was only trying to prove that you are not a girl to be affected by weather. Come on. Tell me, what's eating you?"

You are some distance North to Visage. There is no possible way for them to flee. Not anymore. But maybe... If you reason with her...

"You have a family on Isle of Cats, don't you, Captain?"

"Oh, not a family yet. Just a spouse." She presses the palm to her breast. "She is perfectly aware of my trysts, if that's what you mean. Sometimes, we even have tea with my favorite Office-"

"Is she a Melliferous Sister?"

She blinks and tilts her head slightly to the side.

"Does that bother you, honey? You know, the Christian celibacy is not quite-"       

You take a deep breath. The panic is about to burst through your chest.

"Captain, I know what you did to your previous crew. I know what you are doing to your current zailors."

For a moment, she goes numb. Then giggles and fumbles the edges of your map with her gilded nails.

She raises her eyes. Their gaze is sharp and cold.

"My... Aren't you a smart piggy?"

 

You are the dumbest pig in the whole zee.

The light in the brig is dim. Your wrists are sore with shackles.

Once you laid out your suspicions, she called for her favorite officer, made a disappointed moe and accused you of the theft of some vital intelligence. Right before you were dragged away, she gave you a wink.

And now here she is, with a full plate and an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, honey, we don't feed prisoners very well. Come on, cheer up! Out of all my Officers you are probably the only one worth keeping. Oh, and a cat too. He purrs like an engine. Calming, isn't it?"

You shudder and roll your fists. You try to explain, calmly, how unreasonable it is to waste four skillful Officers and seventeen good sturdy zailors on what accounts to three or four shipments of red honey.

She puts on a well-trained inviting smile.

"The folks in brothel were good and sturdy too. And honey... Do you think it reasonable to unleash ten clients a night on me? And then when they are done, to take away half of my money to the old Pirate Pig?!"

She clasps her mouth, looks around fearfully and continues.

"While you were sniffing your bloody charts, I studied these crew. I know their husbands, wives, sweethearts, kids. I know how easily these dogs forget their duty when they see a swell piece of arse. And honey..."

She holds your hand, her grip is warm and soft.

"Do you think that these people are worth saving?"

You do not know. You do not know anything about this crew. What are their names? Their birthdays? Their crimes?

You do not know, Gods damn it.

"They won't even listen to you. You are not much of a mutineer. You know, you should definitely meet my wife. You are very much alike - brainy, quiet."

She takes a small vial out of her pocket. The honey inside is the color of rose-oil.

"It's mixed with laudanum. Tomorrow, I'll give everyone a few drops. Will you help me, honey?"

They will  sleep and see dreams. They will not even realize what's happening, and when they awake...

They will be in the gardens. They will scream, and rattle their chains and bars, pricking their fingers on rose thorns, trying to fight away the bees. How many stings will it take, for them to finally die, mouths open, eye-sockets empty?

"Will you?"

You shook your head. You cannot help her. And you cannot stop her either.

She laughs and pecks you on the cheek.

"That's a good piggy!"

She is gone.  The dinner is starting to turn stone-cold.

You stare at the ceiling. The zailors on deck sing as they work.

 

You wake up from something warm clawing at your blanket. The Wretched Mog mews and makes itself comfy. You do your best to extricate your legs from beneath it as quietly as possible.

The Captain smiles brightly.

"Rise and shine! Pack your grips, we are going home"

You know better than to ask her where everybody else is.

Her wife's residence looks like the kind of a toy-castle you put candles in to see the windows light up - pretty, enameled and drowning in roses, like everything in this Gods' forsaken place.

You look at the plaque by the door. The place is a bathhouse of some sort, apparently. The list of services seems viscous with all the "honey" in it.

You sheepishly ask why they waste such a valuable substance on something as trivial as a massage.

"Oh, it isn't red honey, silly! It's just a plain old honey. My wife makes lovely pancakes with it."

She chatters about her wife, who seems, from her words, to be a remarkably level-headed person. You nod and listen.

_Maybe, there is still a way to talk some sense into her._

Inside, there is more foam than air. Two zailors all but purr under the hands of two crimson-veiled nuns. Their captain sits in a bathtub, with the beard full of rose petals. The heat is sleep-inducing.

One of the nuns gives your Captain a whistle and nods to the nearest arch.

In the inner court a nun tends to yellow roses.

The Captain kneels to kiss the fringe of her robe. And then she hugs the nun right above the knees, picks her up and twirls, and peppers her with kisses.

They would be very sweet, if you stopped thinking about twenty people snoring in rusty cages, but the most important thing is - they take no notice of you.

Just as you are about to leave, you hear the Melliferous Sister's voice.

"Who is that?"

"My cat. Oh, the one to the right? Don't worry, he is just a first mate and a friend of mine. One smart pig, he is."

Something between sadness and distaste flashes across the nun's face. But still she smiles, and waves to you wearily.

You force yourself to wave back.   

 

The Mog's whiskers are white with cream. He curls itself in a proper fluffy loaf and purrs loudly enough to drown out the argument in the next room.

You sit by his side with a plate of sponge cake and force another sickeningly sweet bite down your throat. You swear you'll never touch a single spoon of honey ever again. At least, the everlasting hunger howls and hides deep in your stomach.

The door is locked, you tried it. So are the windows.

You do not listen to the voices, nor do you try to make out the words. You are overcome with some queer apathy. It is unlikely that they sell you to the Gardens. After all, people come to this island to forget their nightmares, not to gain more of them. Whatever use they have for you - you do not care. You are too tired to be afraid.

The Captain storms past you, fumbles with a key, drops it. You reach for it, but she pushes you away.

"I'll do it myself, thanks."

Before you can say anything this swearing sirocco is lost in roses. The wife stands in the doorway, sighs and turns to you.

"How do you like my cake?"

You say that it is good. She picks up your plate and looks at it dumbly.

"Excuse me for my curiosity, zir." She says at last. "But how long did you spend studying the zee?"

Eighteen years, and still it never fails to make you feel like an amateur.

She closes her eyes, sighs.

"Eighteen years of knowledge... I suppose the others were pretty experienced too?"

Experienced or not, they were _people_.

"That's what I always tell her!"

She barely raises her voice, but still it makes you flinch a little.

"Those are people, dear, they are our helpers, not our cattle... But does she listen?"

You believe she does not.

"Right you are! She carries on with these bloody experiments and wastes **_centuries_**   of knowledge! Why won't she just steal folks from the Surface, like everybody else does?!"

She clutches the greasy plate in shaking fingers.

"And every time she... She finds such reasonable excuses to sell them. I needed a new gun, dear, I needed new engines, I needed a new ship... Has she told you about the last whim of hers?"

No, she did not.

"She wants a big fancy mansion in London. Wants to have many servants. She promised to take me there, you know? Once we are here, we'll get _really_  married, dear, with rings and whispered names and stuff. And I fall for all of that, like a little bloody FOOL!"

The plate smashes into pieces. The Wretched Mog hisses and raises its tail.

"Don't worry, I'll collect all of that."

She walks to the kitchen and brings a vial full of red honey.

"For the listening. It'll last you a month, or it'll get you some good Echoes. I don't care. Just... Please... It'll be a relief for me to know that at least some knowledge is safe. Good day, zir."

She kneels to pick up the china pieces. She says nothing more. The Wretched Mog purrs and rubs against her. 

All the way to Cavendish, you do not look back.


	5. Memory: Visage - Gaider's Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a little something. Without it some of the future chapters don't work. At all.

It costs you a good price to get to Visage.

In the mask of a frog you walk around, watch, study, read… You have not read this much since college. Ancient plays that nearly fall into dust in your hands, general tips - a grandiose advice for every animal who may trade these stones.

The mask does not become you, but you play the required curiosity with care. You ask questions. You snoop around. You croak when Moths look at you disapprovingly.

It pays quickly. One of the locals - a miserable woman with a smooth unsmiling face - agrees to swap masks with you. In the shade of some anonymous column you part ways: she as a frog, you as a moon-moth.  

It’s a little more bearable - all you have to do is show frogs and locusts around the island, and flutter your wings gravelly whenever they try to speak outside their parts. The best possible occupation in this zoo.

The mask veils your memories with veined lime wings. The forgetfulness is tight as a cocoon… But at nights you still have to lie in bed, face to face with the side effects of red honey.

 

The shadows simmer. The shapes seem to breath. The floors creak - you swear you can hear swift, light steps.

_They are near._

Something black and small runs across the floor: a rat, or a disembodied hand? Is it an animal squeaking, or dead nails scratching the clay tiles?

When you manage to close your eyes you can hardly sleep.

_Something in the corner comes to un-life, turns, sits…It feels that you don’t watch. It crawls closer, leaving a black trace, like a giant slug: it misses most of its parts, but one hand is still unscathed (though rather chewed)._

_It is by your bedpost. It reaches the clenched fist out._

_“Your turn.”_

_And you know that every single straw it holds is the short one._

You wake up shaking, wrapping yourself in your wings. You listen to water tapping from the roof of the Blossom. The red vial is wet with dew.

Sometimes, you reach for it. Sometimes, you even unscrew the lid and smell the substance that can solve all your nightmares with a few thick, glistening crimson drops.

No. You know you have to make it. You can’t remember why… But you have to.

The dawn is terribly far.

 

Morning. Another locust needs your guidance around the island. At least this one is not a newcomer, so you have a luxury of silence after a sleepless night.

The man has come here to trade supplies. You watch him haggle as he shows the contents of three barrels to some rich lioness.

Zalt meat. Not the usual tails and tendons, but a pure tenderloin, fine and red.

_Mouthwatering, after the light grasses and confounded honey they stuff you with in the Blossom._

You turn away. Boredom and hunger gnaw at your stomach. Time drips from the side of Flourishing-of-Years, thick and slow.

When all the Echoes are counted and the barrels (you suppress a wistful sigh) are rolled away, the locust joins you. He looks up. The giant mask is brightly illuminated and cowered with wreaths.  

“Why is it so merry?”

You shift our antennae a bit. he doesn't seem to notice.

“It’s the day of the festival. You know, it’s rather unlocustlike to ask such questions.”

“Oh, already? Well, I wish to join.”

“Why would a locust wish that?”

You are glad that the mask distorts your voice, or else he’d definitely hear you yell. By Gods, you should get some sleep.

You don’t want to imagine his grin behind these giant golden eyes.

“To treasure-hunt, of course.”

 

The darkness is full of sighs. Dozens of rams, locusts and frogs turned human at once. You do not speak. You do not touch your strings. You do not deserve the yearly gift of humanity.

But he does not know that.

Before you can say anything, the locust unties the strings and catches your face from falling. You scream and sink to the ground.

“Mate… Are you alright?”

You blindly reach for it. To no avail.

“My face, give me back my face!”

Dark figures around you remain indifferent.

“It’s here. You’ve been wearing the bloody thing for too long. It’s here.”

Something touches the tip of your nose. You stop shaking. He strokes your forehead, your eyelids, gently pats your cheek…  There is a faint scent to his palms: coal and zee-zalt…   _Home._        

“Here it is, mate. Here it is.”                  

Mate… Yes… A long time ago… You were a mate.

The memory runs you through.

_First Mate. Cannibal._

“Come on, mate, cheer up. Aren’t you sick of this clowning?”

He shakes you by the shoulders and whispers in your ear.

“I know where you’re from. A Londoner, ain’t you? How about I tell you all about home, somewhere far from these rams?”

What about the treasure-hunt? His tousled head moves from side to side.

“Some other time, maybe.”

 

You found this place by accident, like most things in your life. A small chamber somewhere beneath the Flourishing’s eye, with a hole in its roof.

The dust dances in the light of distant torches. Fallen stone tiles gleam like copper.

You hesitate.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s been a while since you last touched razor or scissors. In your better days, you wouldn’t allow a zailor to see you like this, let alone the captain…

You try to explain him that, only for him to laugh heartily and drag you right into the beam.

It’s a comfort to see a human face after long, long months of endless masks. Especially, the face that tells you all you want to know: the news, a little stale but still relevant, still from _home_ …

“What about you? How did you end up here?”

You weasel your way out of an answer. Feed him some neutral story that won’t raise any suspicions. He does not believe it an inch.

“You said you were a navigator?”

The only piece of truth in this utter rubbish.

“Haven’t lost your skills?”

Left the instruments to your last captain, but once a man starts to feel the zee, he can never lose or forget this curse. Even if he wants to.

He scans your face. Seems to nod. You nervously ask him about himself.

“Zee-captain. Been one long time. My “Czar” is a worn old thing, but our engines and cannons are good and we have enough supplies to last us from South to North.“

He can’t possibly…

"It needs proper guidance. And you need to get out of this wretched place. Badly. So, what do you say?”

No, he can.

You ask him why in the hell he trusts a stranger in a moth-costume with his ship. He shrugs.

“It’s just your face. Looks trustworthy, unlike my last navigator”

He hands you the flask of good mushroom wine and smiles as you drink.

“Sorry. Didn’t know that I’d have to propose. You’ll get your Echoes on my ship.”

One of the few things you love about foreign ports is how quickly one gets hired. Nobody checks your health or sanity. Nobody cares about your criminal record. You can be a twice a murderer, thrice a thief and still find a decent job and a place to sleep in. One of the few advantages of oblivion.

In five minutes you will be found. Two moths will force you back into your masks and throw you out, two faceted voices squeaking angrily about “violation” and “obscenity”.

You won’t listen.

 

After “Circe” and its silk-lined mammoth of a cabin, his quarters seem decidedly modest: a hammock, a sad mosaicked skull, a portable stove and an opened sack of coffee beans in the corner.

He pushes the papers aside to make his working table more or less suitable for a dinner. His smile is apologetic.

You slurp the warm stew and listen to his zee-stories. The names are music to your ears. The smell of herbs tickles your nostrils. You ask for seconds.

For the first time in Gods know how long you feel at home.

He attempts to learn something about your past, but you feed him the same story, and he falls reluctantly silent.

“What about friends or folks?”

You see no reason to hide that. You tell him that you are not on good terms with you family. You say nothing about your brother. And friends… What friends can one have when he is rootless?

He shrugs.

“I am rootless too. No kids, no spouse. Just a townhouse and a bunch of pals, but even they are getting scarcer: one of them got himself eaten by his own crew, the old moron.”

You shift uneasily.

“Really?”

“Really. He had some shady business in Kingeater’s, and on the way home, he ran out of supplies. Can you imagine what happened next?”

You believe you can.

“No, you cannot. They drew straws. All of them – zailors, officers, the captain. Democracy, eh? And guess who was the first to draw the short one?”

You barely manage to hold your spoon.

_Keep it together. London is smaller than you think. It was bound to happen._

“Old Swinburne himself. Poor men, eating this tough meat. No wonder he didn’t sustain them for long. Anyway, out of seventeen people only six made it back to London. Seven eaten. The rest starved, or taken by tentacles and Terror.”

You count to ten. You have to sound natural…

“What about the rest of them? The ones who made it back?”

“Hanged. All but three”.

It seems that you succeed.

“The rich prick who turned them in pulled his Admiralty strings and went home free as a bird. Some zailor became a butler of Captain Ives (good old soul, he is). Oh yes, and the first mate, he managed to flee. Lucky thing, isn’t he?”

You swallow one more spoonful and speak up as blankly and indifferently as you can.

“Yes. Lucky.”

He watches you slyly.

“Want thirds?”

You want to say no. You really do. But you’ve spent too many nights grappling with hunger to even think of refusal, and this stuff is so bloody   _good_ …

“Yes, please.”

 

The crew are nice. The work is joy. Weeks flow by, good and slow and relatively untroubled.

But when the Captain comes for instructions you feel that he is aware of what you’ve done.

You can tell yourself that it is just your ever-growing paranoia, that he just tries to grasp what you are made of, but the feeling never leaves. He listens a bit _too_ obediently, he even takes notes on a piece of paper (what captain ever does that?!).

You tell him an approximate amount of food and fuel he is going to save and wait for the reply.

_Gods, let it end._

“Mate… I must tell you something…”

His voice is unusually serene. You fiddle with a pencil in your fingers.

_Do. Not. Dare. To. Shake._

He raises his head. His smile is bright. His eyes are shining.

“You are a bloody treasure.”                                                  

You breath out and laugh nervously. This time, luck is on your side.

 

In Khan’s Shadow he drags you to some seedy alehouse. You sit by the greasy crane-painted screen. Behind it, people shift like peculiar shadow puppets – a good distraction from your flushed and crumpled captain. He pops some fried vermin in his mouth and crunchingly asks you to drink.

“Come on, mate.” A trustworthy smile. “It’s not like I’m gonna rob you in some dark corner.”

You look at him warily and oblige. Each gulp is fire to tongue and stomach. Your mind quickly starts to reel, but still you manage to keep up with his words.

He speaks about churches and chapels of the Neath, about practices and beliefs the Admiral himself has not heard of…

“That’s how I ended up in Visage, business aside. It’s my personal quest, you see. To record all the philosophies of this place, _here_.”  

He taps his forehead.

You finish the second glass, and when he moves to pour you some more, shake your head. He takes you by the wrist. Hesitates, as if checking your pulse.

“I only want you to relax mate. Tension doesn’t do you any good, you know.”

Dark hands pick up the dirty dishes and put a new plate in front of you.

Some semblance of cheese (of course if one can call white zalted fungus “cheese”) and a tiny bowl full of thick yellow liquid.

Honey.

You stomach turns. The Captain smiles, nods and puts another glass into your fingers.

“Somebody been to the Isle of Cats, huh? Want to tell about that?”

You tell him everything, though your tongue feels stiff and your throat is sore with the recent dread, drinking simply to moisturize the vocal cords.

About “Circe” and her orgies, about her human pigs and her sullen, merciful wife.

He does not interrupt you. Does not ask questions. He simply pours more and more of this liquid fire, but your mind is too drowned in alcohol clouds to give a damn.

You are completely wasted by the time you finish your tale.

“Well, mate,” The Captain sounds terrified and almost sober (completely sober, compared to you). “You are one lucky bastard to survive it all.”

“Yes, lucky. So damn lucky. Can’t sleep nights over how lucky I am. You know what I’ve been doing in Frostfound when she picked me up? Waiting for the Admiralty’s reply.”

You laugh – a sharp, bitter sound, that grows round your neck like a thistle.

“I’m the lucky first mate of  “The Bonny Swan”. I helped to butcher your friend. I… I watched as my brother was killed. You know, when they slit the throat, they put a good mug to the wound, so that no drop is lost. And then they lace it with zalt, and they _drink it_!”

You pay no attention to the tears streaming down your cheeks. He does. He puts his hand on your shoulder only for you to shake it off.

“And… I… I didn’t do a damn thing to stop them. I just watched and watched, and when th-they were done, I felt such a _relief_.”

Silence. You wipe your face with your sleeve. He eyes his empty glass and almost flinches when you speak again.

“Do you want to keep me now, Captain? A convict?! A c… k… cannibal?!”

Maybe he gives you a slow nod. You do not know anymore. Your vision dissolves into something warm and blurry.

All the way to the ship he somehow manages to keep you straight.

 

You wake up in your cabin the next day, with the body heavy, the heart pounding in your brain, the mouth full of bitterness. You consider crawling on deck, but your head expresses its dislike of the idea _very_   vocally.

You remember little. Aside from intoxication and a vague feeling of telling your Captain something you really should not have told.

You force yourself to go to his cabin, even though each step hammers your brain deeper into your skull.

The Captain is sober and well. He looks at you with the usual air of someone expecting a very interesting zee-story from a long-absent friend.

“Morning, mate. Slept well?”

You feel like punching him in the face.

“Not the toughest thing, are you? Go, visit our doctor. You look like you’ve just escaped Fathomking’s court.”

You rub your forehead. Yes, a pill or two would be nice. But still…

“Captain… What did I tell you last night?”

“Nothing good for blackmail, I'm afraid.”

He is lying and both of you know that.

 

The surgeon belongs to the rare category of men who do not feel giant by your side. There is dead, wistful fire in his eyes… Eye.

“A new arrival… Got acquainted with our captain, I presume?”

You do your best not to grit your teeth in pain. He digs through his vials and continues in the same monotonous voice.

“He does it to every officer he recruits. A good friendly sort, our captain, is he not?”

Yes, he is.

“He is friendly to the very end, even if one tries to hide something from him. Though it is difficult. As well as highly inadvisable.”

You decide that you do not wish to find out how he understood that. But you ask what _is_ advisable with the Captain.

The surgeon turns to you, but does not look you in the eye. His gaze is fixated somewhere to the side of your head.

“Have you not sensed it yet? Oh, I see… Better with work than with people? Just like me.”

Something about it all makes you decidedly uneasy.

“You are small, quiet, and from what I have heard from the crew pretty intellegent… It seems like you fit his type perfectly.”

Suddenly, the Captain’s tender words and velvet looks start to make sense.

The man is not mad with Terror. It’s just his standards are ridiculously low. But how could you guess that? Not like in all years of zailing, anyone has tried to court you: the brief encounters you had in Wolfstack Docks did not think you worthy of time and effort.

“Now, now, do not look so lost. Our captain respects refusal. He will still help you. There is not an Officer on this ship whom he did not try to help.”

He weights some white powder and folds a square of paper into a neat cornet.

“This is not the way I am wired. But if you are… Let me say it is much more practical to submit.”

Outside the sick bay, you lean onto the wall. You swallow the remedy and care nothing about the bitterness.

There is a light coming from Captain’s cabin.

 

You watch your Captain closely after that talk. Not for any tender words or way-too-long touches - these are too blatant not to see.

But for a flaw.

He is the kind of a man who comes home after a long voyage, greets the rats and jumps into bed, sprinkling laughter and coal dust. Not exactly the type for the household, but he could fetch any zailor or a young Officer with a tale, a grin, a pat on the shoulder. Hell, he could talk a Cattie into not asking for a single dime.

So why you? Why not some fancy sharp specimen who would be a challenge to woo? The Magician, for example?

Not that you aren’t flattered… By Gods, sometimes the way he looks at you makes you feel like somebody else. Somebody who is more confident and more worthy of affection he showers you with. The man drowses your memories, numbs your guilt…

But why, good Gods, why?

You do not get any answer. You decide not to ask for it.

 

_Some distance North to Mount Palmerston._

The “Czar”'s zailors make their way onto a wreck of a passer-by cargo vessel. Their feet are swift; their hands, swifter. They run around with sacks of coal, crates of goods, peculiar Iron Republic chests. They even undress the corpses in search of a few Echoes and some meager zailor treasures.

The survivors are lined before the Captain. Some of them can barely stand - their comrades help them, notwithstanding own wounds.

Their captain - a plump, pale little fellow - tries to negotiate.

“Say, we take a boat and a crate of supplies, make it to Palmerston. We’ll tell nothing. We’ll say that our ship was sunk by… by… What are those icy vermin?”

“Lifebergs, my lord,” says a stately woman, pressing a piece of fabric to her bloody eye socket.

“Yes, those things! And you get all of our cargo and money. So, what do you say?”

The Captain’s lips move as he counts them. He calls for a surgeon.

“Doctor, tend to the wounded. Navigator… Would you kindly assist him?”

The Doctor ushers them to the sick bay. You follow. The last you see of the Captain is him discussing something with the Magician, whose hook is suspiciously sharp.

 

You spend the next three hours with bandages, and ointments, and catgut threads. The Doctor is exasperatedly patient, but you have no desire to get on his nerves. The survivors don’t say anything. Most of them don’t.

There is a young man with a gash in his right thigh who firmly refuses any help.

“I won’t be cured by pirates!”

You expect him to spit in your face. The Doctor sighs - the man is amongst his last patients.

“Zir, allow me to clean your wound. Or do you want to get an infection?”

He gives a slow meticulous description of gangrene and the following amputation process. The man turns greenish-pale. He nearly faints when the Doctor starts to apply the stitches.

You look away. You listen. You don’t know the exact moment the voices stopped coming from the deck, but now… There is something else. The splashes, the scrubbing, the faint laughter…

The survivors look at each other uneasily. This is definitely not what one expects from pirates’ rejoicing.  The Doctor rolls his eye.

“I will not be needing you anymore. Thank you. And, for the love of Gods, do not come on deck.”

Your questioning face says it all.

“The Neptune’s Day. The only way to make these imbeciles take a decent bath. They walk around pouring water on whoever they meet, because if the cold does not take them, then it does not take anyone. So please… Do not come on deck.”

It doesn’t sound threatening. At all. Besides, you don’t mind washing this medical smells off your skin. You climb on deck…

And end up in the middle of a vessel-shaped lake.

A zailor slips on a soap-bar, falls over and lies, laughing in the empty false-sky. The Magician washes his countless silk gowns. At least three zailors watch his bare back dreamily. A paper ship sails past you. You scan the deck in search of the Captain…

And then somebody empties a bucket of water on you.

It’s more unexpected than cold. The foam-person who used to be the Cannoneer scurries away, laughing like a schoolchild.

A good beginning of thorough washing, indeed.

You sit on the barrel and wrap yourself up in a dry towel. The zee-air seems squeakily clean. The Cannoneer gets their bucket full, presses their finger to their lips and trots belowdecks. Seems like the Doctor has a very unpleasant surprise coming.

The Captain appears by your side suddenly, but that doesn’t frighten you. He looks at you, smiles, chuckles.

“You look like a wet crow, you know.”

Yes. Not like you look much different from a shaggy bird in your dry state.

“You can get yourself dry in my cabin, you know. I’ve lit a stove.”

On any legal ship such “subtlety” would result in talks and leers. But here, nobody seems to notice, and even if they do, they don’t give half a biscuit…

You eye him, contemplating.

The liaisons between captains and officers are just moments of cozy madness in the dark that are forgotten as soon as their participants set feet on the solid ground. Besides, it’s terribly unlikely to last past one encounter - you have already decided to flee this pirate-vessel as soon as possible… Perhaps, you can give him a try.

You drag yourself to his cabin.

 

The embers glow is faint. You spread out your clothes by the stove, and spread your hands to the warmth.

You pay no attention as the door creeks shut.

The Captain hugs you from behind and puts his head on your shoulder. The water drips from his hair. The smell is cool and clean.

He slides his hands beneath your towel, strokes your ribs (gently, with the very fingertips), grins and kisses you on the cheek.

“Nice.”

If that is nice, he should definitely try fraternizing with a Tomb Colonist. The sensations will be roughly the same, except it won’t get light and warm over mere embrace.

He turns you around and caresses your face, as if trying to sculpt it out of the growing darkness. You are reminded of the Flourishing-of-the-Years, of the rows of sighing figures…

“Here it is, mate, here it is.” 

You cannot help smiling.

He nudges you to the nearest wall and gives you a full kiss. His gentleness is suspicious for a zee-captain, especially for a pirate one, almost like…

He kneels. He whispers.

You have no idea what he says, but when he raises his eyes the tenderness in them is horrendous. Poor man. Being love-struck with somebody like you - you can hardly imagine such a misery.

You ruffle his hair and urge him to continue.

Because, by Gods, the man’s tongue is good not only when it comes to stories: ardent and soft, just enough to make you quiver.

Your hands feel oddly alien. For once, you cannot think of any use for them. When he interlocks his fingers with yours, you squeeze them as hard as you can.

The blood pounds in your ears. Seems like two years of celibacy have robbed you of the little form you had. Your head drops back, the skull clunking against the wall, but Gods damn it, if you care.

He slows down a little, looks up at you.

_Are you all right, mate?_

You try to speak, but your tongue is dry. You give him a shaky nod instead. The intensity is overwhelming, and it only serves to make the hunger worse. You want it. You realize how much you’ve missed it.

He obliges.

Suddenly, the colors and shadows of his cabin seem sharper. You can barely stand on the jelly feet. You are wrecked with tremor that soon dissolves into pure, tingling warmth. 

He kisses you below the navel and withdraws, wiping his chin. Gods save him, the man is beaming with pride.

You sink to the floor and barely register him hugging you, whispering the same unknown words into your ear. 

They sound endlessly calming. 

 

He half-carries you to his hammock - a compatible thing, perfect for lying still and swinging slowly, slowly…

You force the drowsiness back and move to express your gratitude. He smiles and shakes his head.

"No need for that.”

You look at the swaying ceiling. Such places as this always fill one with a primal sincerity.

_He deserves to know what he’s bedding._

“Zir, have I told you of my other ships?”

He cringes.

“Yes. About all two of them.”

When you think about a proper answer (or a question?) he puts your hand on the crown of his head.

“Feel the halo? No? Because there isn’t one. We’re all sinners on his ship, mate, and you are definitely not the worst.”

You’ve always imagined forgiveness to be something strict and haggard like gaol-warden. But Gods… This Aestival shining face becomes it so much better.

His stupid grin is contagious. You ask him about other sinners.

He laughs and tells you everything. About the Magician’s enmity with Fingerkings, and his love for beautifully handed Catties. About the Cannoneer and their endless explosive acquaintances. About the Doctor’s desperate causes…

You ask about the main sinner’s past.

He watches the ceiling intently.

“You won’t believe.”

You will try to.

“You see… I used to be a poet.”

That’s the funniest lie you’ve heard in weeks. A poet, really? Does he think you mad? You saw poet-captains before: sentimental wide-eyed imbeciles who leave the running of the ship to their first mates, or cynical penny-pinchers, never failing to show how Zee broke their tender souls. Both types are unbearable to work with.

“I swear by Salt, Stone, Storm, or whatever god you believe in. I even used to be published in small pink papers. Never got popular. Little wonder  - my language was dreadful.”

You wonder whether he is simply being modest, or it’s the Zee that polished him to a storyteller you know now.

“I fled to the Zee. Turns out, piracy is much more profitable than poetry.”

Why you’d never.

“And turns out, zalted zailors are much more lovable than Muses.”

Seems like his flirting is as dreadful as his poetry. Not that you mind, but still…

“Captain…”

He kisses your earlobe and whispers his real name.

In a way, it’s like his voice - not quite than what you expected to hear, almost unsuitable.

You try to settle it in your head.

The man is insane. Such trust is forgivable only for a young foolish zailor. There are many ways to use the name in the Neath, sometimes for very, very ill deeds, and there he is, whispering it like another cheap secret.

You attempt to shift and lie on your side…

Only for the hammock to overturn.

He rolls off you, looks at the madly swinging thing and starts to laugh. He doesn’t ask about your name.

 

You both decide to settle on the floor.

You turn away without the slightest care for courtesy and wait for him to turn asleep. You think.

It’s a good crew and a good enamored Captain … Well, not universally good, but they have been kind to you. Maybe, the kindest anyone has ever been. Perhaps, there is a chance to get used to it all. To drowse your conscience and succumb to piracy. To learn to be loved.

Something moves far, far beneath you. You hear the muffled moans, the sleep-talks and occasional snore.

_The survivors._

All little sleep you had disappears into thin air. You rise and dress yourself, as quietly as you can. There is a mass of papers on his working table, and you dig through those slowly, slowly…

He yawns, on the very verge of awakening. You are ready to walk purposefully to the door, ready to _run_ …

He turns and goes back to sleep.

 

You stand before a glistening door. It looks more like a giant vault of some highly guarded bank than any kind of ship equipment.

The keyhole is almost impossible to find.

The majority of survivors are huddled as far from the door as it is possible in this tiny room. They lie, their heads on each other’s knees, curled up to save some warmth in their torn clothing. The wounded have fresh bandages.

There is only one person awake - the woman in a bloody eye-patch. She turns to you, her stare indifferent, yet heavy.

You don’t look at her face. You simply shove the Wife’s vial in her hands. It failed to soothe your pain… But for these people it can provide the only escape.

She remains silent.

You wish her good night, remember yourself, apologize. As you turn to leave, she asks:

“What kind of a pirate are you?”

You don’t know. By Gods, you don’t know. But you are the one who actually deserves to be locked away in here.

You step out and lock the door. The key barely turns in you shaking fingers. When you are done, somebody puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Mate, what on Earth was that?”

You don’t dare to shiver.

 

The coffeepot boils on the stove merrily. He looks at you over his shoulder.

“Like yours sweet as the meat?”

You don’t understand. You don’t want to understand.

“I’ll take it as a yes.”

He hands you a steaming cup. Takes a generous gulp out of his own. You wonder how he manages not to scold his tongue and throat.

“So… Tell me, why did you spend it on these cattle?”

You say nothing. You should have guessed it before, you stupid pig. There ought to be the reason to his kindness, to his endless understanding, to the Magician’s razor-sharp hook…

All the time you spend in the sick-bay… All these stripped corpses… All the countless barrels of supplies…

He puts his arm around your shoulders.

“I understand. It’s hard to stop seeing them as the ones of your kin. Don’t worry mate, we’ll help you. We all have been through that. Here’s an advice: try to imagine cows and bulls when you look at them. It works. At least for me, it…”

“Captain, I wish to retire.”

He sits startled. Pours the remains of coffee downs his throat and puts an empty cup on the floor.

“Mate, please… Don’t make such hasty decisions. I’m sure we can talk it all over, we can…”

You rise and put the untouched cup on his “working” table.

“Thank you for the coffee, zir. In a week we’ll be passing Gaider’s Mourn, a good place for you to find a new first mate. Now excuse me. I must work.”

“Wait.”

He smiles: a wide nervous grin and a fake nonchalant voice.  

“And what if I don’t zail in here?”

Something wakes up in your chest, something heavy and tar-black. You have mere seconds before it wraps its roots around your heart and lungs.

You breath deep in, then out. There. It should buy you about half a minute.

“Then I shall kill you. And flee.”

You look him in the eye and leave the room before he manages to regain his senses.

In your cabin, behind the closed door you lie in bed, unable to breath. The panic squeezes the air out of your chest with a dull ache.

_Moron. He’ll gut you, or lock you up, or worse…_

He doesn’t.   

 

He doesn’t speak to you. He doesn’t come for knowledge. Sometimes, he lingers in the doorway, watching you work. He can talk you to stay. You both know it. He can force you, and both of you know that as well.

 

Gaider’s Mourn. He stands and waits for you to pack your belongings. You realize you’d spend another hungry month in Visage, to hear his clumsy joke, or any word from him…

_Foolishness. He has infected you with it._

On shore, he shakes you hand. He does his best to keep his face.

The crew clings to the rails, watching the two of you. The Cannoneer puts on a disappointed moe and whines about something to the exasperated Doctor.

You try and fail not to notice them.

“Thank you for getting me out of Visage, zir… It’s been a pleasure to work with you.”

He jolts a little. The words he would like to say swarm in his mouth, but he holds them down.

“It’s been a pleasure to work with you as well.”

Reluctantly, he lets go of your hand.


	6. Memory: Avid Horizon - Chapel of Lights + Tantalos - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: T

You are done with serving. The place of a passenger allows you to lock yourself away and not to think about anything, except for your old crimes and devoured shipmates. It's quite likely that the captain who ferries you is an ordinary monstrosity too, but at least you hear nothing of his crimes and he doesn't ask you about yours.  

But he does raise his eyebrows when he learns the port of destination. Again, who wouldn't if a passenger from Gaider's Mourn asked to be taken to...

_The Avid Horizon._

The captain rubs his mittens together. His nose is as red as strawberry.

"I'm gonna get my arse to Aestival, first thing in the morning, that's what I'll do." He grumps  something else, but you don't listen.

You find the needed column and scuffle through the endless envelopes, sheets and scrolls.

Green - unread. Jones - unread. Daves - unread.

Your hands feel numb. Your throat aches for a good jug of warmed rum.

Smith - unread. Drake - approved. Clay - unread.

Your confession lies, as neatly folded as many, many months ago...

Completely untouched.

All this time, when you fouled yourself with worse crimes, it laid there. When the Admiralty agent came and selected Drake, the traitor of the Empress, for absolution, it laid there.

You look for the other forgiven ones, not to let your mind completely delve into despair.

This one is a thief with only a few lines written down. This one is a murderer, with an exceedingly fancy handwriting. This one is a perjurer. There is even an arsonist with a crumpled brown paper.

_They didn't do it because they wanted to survive. The arsonist coquettishly admitted that he did it out of mere love of fire. Out of boredom. And yet it's you whose sin is too great to be even looked upon._

Your toes seem to have frozen into your shoes. The captain coughs assiduously.

_Though admit it, you don't even want redemption anymore. You felt great on board of the Czar, didn't you?_

You did.

_The conscience is a tricky little bugger, but think about it. If you are a cannibal who can never be forgiven, wouldn't that be easier to simply forget?_

Something glimmers in the growing gloom of your skull - some distant talk from your last vessel - that slowly starts to form into an idea.

_Yes... For a cannibal it's easy to forget._

You take a chewed piece of a pencil out of your pocket. It's hard to hold in freezing fingers, but the anger warms them well. You scribble something in the end of your confession and stare at the drunk uneven letters.

_This is it. No more chance of absolution._

Finally, you turn to the captain.

"Thank you for helping me, Citizen. You've been very kind. But there is one more place I want to visit... There, you'll finally be rid of me."

He barely opens his mouth to say something.

"I'll pay twice the price. It's near, Citizen. There you can eat and rest as much as you wish."

He seems doubtful.

"What is this place?"

Gods confound these silly boys who buy themselves a ship and plunge into the depths of zee without an ounce of knowledge of its islands.

" _The Chapel of Lights._ "

 

"What do you want with this place, anyway?" - the captain asks and looks over the countless candles.

You tell him that you need to see the priest.

The man is too cold and hungry to be suspicious. He merely nods and turns to hear the bells.

On shore, a novitiate waits for the vessel to dock..

"Greetings, kiddo," The captain tries way too hard to sound jolly. "Can you take us to the Priest?"

The boy sinks his teeth into the gingerbread chapel and all the way to the sturdy door he doesn't stop chewing.

The Priest sits at a pew, knitting.

He notices the crew and clasps his hands to his bosom.

"Gods, where are my manners! Good evening, friends! It's nice to see you here."

The captain shakes his hand, but still doesn't allow himself to ask about the food. The stomachs growl miserably. The Priest smiles with sugar-white teeth and takes the key out of the folds of his robe.

When he opens the store, some newbie-zailor sighs, completely enchanted. Old zee-wolfs take out their own knives and forks. The captain simply stares.

The smell is heavenly. Crispy golden bread-loaves, cakes and biscuits, steaks and stews. This store is enough to feed the crowd twice the size of yours, and still there would be something left for a light snack.

"Say, zir, did you cook it all by yourself?!" - the captain asks, piling the golden potatoes on his plate.

The Priest laughs.

"Oh, zir, you are doing me too much honor! Of course not. I have many helpers."

"Where are they, though? My crew and I would love to thank them for such a lovely dinner."

You look at this boy from the side of the table. He won't last long at the Unterzee, that's for sure.

The Priest sniffs the air and springs from his sit.

"It seems that pies are ready. Would you excuse me, zir?"

You grab at his sleeve as he passes, and ask him about the sigils.

He stands still, then nods and speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Yes, zir, your help might come in handy."

 

By the well, he nods through your story, pats your back, like an affectionate grandfather consoling his wayward child.

"Don't worry, we understand, we understand. We all make mistakes, and the Admiralty is not of any help. Forgive me my question, but how much do you have?"

You hand him your purse. He unties the strings and barely glances at your Echoes.

"That will do. But zir, I must warn you... Nobody knows how the sigil is going to act. Sometimes, they can get unruly. When all the bad memories are devoured, its hunger may not be sated. It may help itself to the rest of your mind. Not to mention the pains, which are, sadly, unavoidable. Are you sure you want to take such drastic measures?"

It takes him a single look at you to sigh and see you to the tattoo-master.

 

The plump man lays out the silver needles, the faintly glistening vials. He pours some liquid on the white cloth. It turns greyly-beige. He presses the cloth to your right temple.

You scream. The thing burns worse than acid, it plunders deep into the very skull, it scratches and bites.  

"Hush, zir, hush. It's only some Gant to erase unneeded colors, it's only..."

You don't care, Gods damn him, you don't care!

He winces.

"Take this, zir." He hands you a box of Mutersalt. "I turn very imprecise from screams."

You have no other choice but to take it.

 

The pain is tiresome. At some point, you are not even sure you can remember the times when there was none of it. The tears have long dried out, but Gods damn it, you want to weep. Sometimes you wheeze only for the artist to put some more salt in your mouth.

But there is something else aside from pain...

The fog behind your closed eyelids slowly starts to change color. It's not the spotted black anymore. It's something thick, something not exactly violet, something that digs busily through the ridges of your brain, something brightly, unbearably...

_Irrigo._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The last vision of the stack closes its petals. You return to the empty gloom of the body no longer yours.

Irrigo cloud grows thick around you, attempts to pull you away from your memories... And fails miserably.

You've grown too well into them. To pry you away it'll have to devour every individual bond, one by one. A tricky, yet manageable task when you hang in the brain abyss and have nothing to do.

But when you have a course to chart and a body to run, an empty and nearly bloodless one as that, it becomes... What is the word? Practically impossible.

The violet light flashes like the Surface sun, then coils away in anger.

_Just like a fussy rubbery man._

The thought isn't that funny, but it tickles your soul, it throbs and throbs until...

You laugh.

You can feel the vibrations of the throat, the heaving chest, the clatter of the drawers. Though you are still deaf and blind, after all these months of emptiness, simply  _feeling_ is such a joy that you can hardly think _..._

You try to clench your fists, to move your toes. Neither of them complies.

Slowly, the body starts to grow distant and numb. You try to cling to muscles, to preserve yourself in the bone marrow, to do _something_...

Irrigo pushes you as far as possible, all prickly with amethyst needles. Terrified.

_Here. Your precious memories. Play with them._

You don't.

You think. There ought to be some reason for it to lose control. Was it something about the thoughts? No, there were none. Or the emotions? It was calm, before you started laughing. Or the body position? It was sitting upright, doing nothing, simply...

Sleeping.

It's been running the body as if it was an engine since the very rite. No wonder that the poor thing has decided to rebel.

Now all it will take is another fit of sleep, or (which is better) some deep exhaustion faint, for you to...

_What? What will you do?_

You have an idea. A good end. A deserved end.

You wrap yourself with memories, weaving a glowing nest of sounds and images. You wait.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The pencil leaves a faint, shaky line, then falls and rolls on the floor.

You jolt awake. One more fit. Each time it's a little longer, and each time it's a little more difficult to will him down.

Maybe, you should ask the Captain to get something fresh to course through this traitor of a body - your blood store is depleting steadily with all the erratic changes of the course.

You were supposed to be in London two months ago, but they keep fleeing the mere thoughts of home, as if something is going to devour them at the very quay.

You ask no questions. If they asked you to assist them in butchering the rest of the crew, you wouldn't ask questions. You are the perfect mate.

You slap your cheeks and force yourself to work.

Where were you when the slate slipped?

Somewhere...  By the Shepherd Isles?

_That's where they caught us, didn't they?_

By Judgements, please, you really do not have time for...

_The chimney. The grim figure of the Captain, clearly exasperated by everlasting nonsense. The brisk question about your occupation._

You shake the memory off. It snaps its pincers and crawls away.

The map lies with the traces of wrong shaky lines. Each day, there is more of them, each day it is a little harder to concentrate on the current task.

You know that fresh blood will not help. Neither will the sigils.

You try to reason with him, to bargain for just one night of sound safe sleep.

If he uses Gant to be rid of every speck of you, his body will merely start to dry like any corpse of the Neath. He does not fancy becoming a tomb colonist, does he?

_What if I do?_

Well this is perfectly sane, to wrap oneself up in bandages (it won't take many of them, anyway), pay the leftover Echoes to get to Venderbight, and there... What? No captain will hire a mummified body when there are hundreds of healthy alive zailors walking around the Neath.

_I'll visit the Grand Sanatorium._

Well this is it. You have known the human souls to be stubborn and irrational, but this is far, far beyond your limits...

There is silence inside your skull. Except for some tickling movement, like a maggot in a rotten wood. He searches for another memory, spreads it out...

_There is no wind. There is no sound - a break between the crew shanties. There is just cold stone and alien skin._

It engulfs you... It draws you in, murmuring, humming with the mouth full.

You do not have anything to be afraid with.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

You awake. You see the dusty books on your shelves, the bed that remained untouched for a long, long time... You hear the Campaigner lecture some zailor about his sore throat.

You sit upright. The spine compels with ease. You blink. There is no sickly violet fog beneath the closed eyelids.

_By Gods, can you finally be free?_

You stretch, rise and walk around the cabin. All your memories seem intact and none of them cause any...

The pain bites hard, more ferocious than you ever remember it to be. You double over, dip your hands into the empty stomach cavity, trying to tear through fabric and reach the bloody sigils that feel like hot irons.

All seven of them ache in such unison, that you can't even scream.

_Almost Never Remembered._

Well, here's the price for your "almost".

You sit on the floor and wait till the pain dulls - not much, just enough to bear it. You feel the knobs and pull every single drawer out of your ribcage. You've known what has been done to you the whole time, but why does it feel so Gods damn humiliating?!

_Never mind, never mind, you'll leave this damn ship the next time you reach London._

You take their contents out - papers, instruments, letters, some tiny curiosities your Captain likes to collect - and sort them on the floor in neat stacks and not-so-neat piles to...

"What are you doing, may I ask?"

You turn your head way too swiftly for the forehead sigil's liking.

The Captain leans against the door-frame. The subordinate timidity seizes you.

"I-I'm sorry, Captain, I..."

They slam their fist into the door.

"Stop mimicking him."

_Calm. Keep the fear away._

You swallow.

"I'm not mimicking anyone, Captain, I simply wish to retire."

"Really? Again?"

"Yes, Capt..."

Their tattooed arm darts forward like a striking snake. You see the scales glisten.

The fingers tighten around your throat and compel you to rise. The Captain's teeth are bared. You feel the same scent of raw meat.

"Go. _Back_ to _work_."

You attempt to argue, but they squeeze the air out of your wind-pipe. They remind you the essence of the pact.

You go numb.

_Their offer wasn't that of forgiveness. Or justice... It was just an invitation into slavery._

You wheeze.

"Pact... Not... Me..."

They let go. They ask you to repeat. You take deep breaths (the empty chest allows it nicely).

"The pact was with my sigil. Not with me."

They lift your head, look you in the eye... Their gaze is worried and roving.

"By Gods... Is that _you_?"

They embrace you. You don't even try to wriggle free.

"Captain... Please... I really do wish to retire."

You didn't think they would listen to your refusal, but, thank Gods, you stop feeling their body against yours. They move away.

"Where? You're weak. You're empty. The dryness will get you soon."

_Somewhere as far from them as it's possible would do nicely._

You mumble something about not wanting to stay on this ship anymore. Their eyes widen. They understand.

"Is that about the thing in Kingeater's? Come on, it was worth a try... At least some part of it."

You wince. For them, maybe it was.

They frown.

"Navigator, please, don't be such... I was merely trying to comfort you in your last moments."

You don't know what you expected. You really don't.

They sit by your side for a while, then speak in that quiet, pressureless voice you've rarely heard them use.

"Please... I'm sorry. I regret it all. Can I have a second chance? Or at least some time to find a replacement?"

_Gods damn them, and their ship and everything about it all..._

"I will stay. Only until you find another first mate, Captain."

To your greatest relief they don't even shake your hand before leaving.

 

The Captain's wife waits on shore. She is too stately a lady to wave or to nod. Her face is firm,  and her dress is impeccably ironed. The child holds her hand, yawning, rubbing their eyes. The hour is outrageously early.

The hug your Captain gives them makes you clutch your ribs in protection. The child laughs as their hair is ruffled and starts to chatter about some treasures, urchins and street fights.

You stand aside. You don't want to think about your family. If you visited them, what would they say? Would they ask you about your brother? Would they wonder where have you been all these years? Or would there be nobody left to meet you?

You don't know. Nor do you wish to find out.  

The Captain nods in your approximate direction.

"Oh, we have a guest, pals. He is..."

"Your First Mate." The Lady's eyes are serene. "I know."  

The child lets go of her hand and walks to you, eyes wide and unreadable.

"Zir, are you a drownie? You look ghastly"

You really do and soon you will look even ghastlier.

"Don't be upset. I love all stuff ghastly. Boys are gonna go green when they know about you. They've never seen a real Drownie."

You pull out one drawer and fumble though it. The child's face lights up like an electric lamp.

You hand them some monstrosity of the Captain's gift - a rat skull with transparent insect wings. The Captain's wife looks at you, but doesn't say anything.

All the way to their townhouse the child clings to the tails of your coat.

 

The Lady makes quick dough. Her silence is suffocating. The child plays in the other room, oblivious.

"So... What's new in the street?" - the Captain asks finally.

She utters a few short phrases and adds some flour to the mixture.

You twist the drawer knob through your shirt. It does little to help.

"What about you, guys? Everything good?"

She balances the pan to spread the melting butter. Everything is fine.

"Did you get my letters?"

There is no answer. She bakes the first crumpet and drops it on the plate before you.

"Check the zalt."

You refuse as politely as you can, but still she lifts an eyebrow. You are dreadfully ashamed, you really want to say that it's not out of any disrespect, it's just because...  

The Captain eats with great appetite.

"Nothing special. Just a lovely crumpet from my Lovely Lass."

She does not smile. She bakes another dozen and calls the child.

 

You look at your tea and feel extremely awkward.

The Lady cuts her crumpet and dips the pieces into crimson jam. She does not look at the Captain. The silence between them is heavy.

The child munches happily and does not stop staring at you.

"Don't you drownies need to eat?"

You continue to hypnotize your cup.

"Or do you only eat people? You can have my toes if you want to. I don't use them anyway."

Silently, the Lady leads them away. They kick and grump and struggle. You offer your assistance. She shudders. Thanks you. Refuses.

Her voice is made of icicles.

 

She comes back, cleans the table and takes a small envelope out of her apron.

"We need to talk. This is the letter I received about two months ago. About your trip to Kingeater's Castle. Do you want to tell me about that?"

The Captain shifts a little.

"I told you, love. About zee-terrors. About the darkness..."

_Thank Gods, they don't call her honey._

"And how lonely one becomes far away from home. I'm not talking about that. I do not give half a damn about your encounters with Catties, or Maybe's Daughter, or anyone for that matter... But _this_."

She tosses an empty envelope aside and starts reading.

"They returned an hour later, disheveled and soaked in blood. They found something in this Gods forsaken place, but by the haunted look of our first mate, it seemed that they lost it. My Lady, I can only guess what exactly happened there. But mark my word - it was not an ordinary tryst."

The Captain clenches and unclenches their fists.

"It was just a tryst, love. It was just a good fun..."

You do your best not to shiver. The Lady lowers her eyelids.

"Zir. Please. Tell me, what happened there?"

The Captain looks at you enraged and slightly terrified - a child who has broken the window and begs a playmate not to give them away.

The truth boils in you. Tempting. Terrifying.

_Your spouse used me, cut my entrails out for food and turned me into the piece of furniture you see now. Can you take my cup away, milady? I'm unable to drink._

"I was cursed. Your spouse did their best to help me."

The Lady waits. When you say nothing more she nods disappointedly.

"How are you now?"

The Captain livens up.

"The curse still bothers him, love. He is in pain. He has absolutely nowhere to go in the city. Can he stay for a month or so, before I find a new first mate?"

The Lady sighs and sways her head from side to side gently. You try to calculate the approximate price of the cheapest ratless room for tonight.

"One foundling more, one foundling less. I'll make a bed for him."

The Captain smiles. For once, the sight of their crooked teeth doesn't fill you with dread.


	7. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: T

The place is full of green velvet and tobacco dust. You can imagine all the gentlemen who used to sit in these disgustingly soft chairs and push the poor tailor around as they read their morning papers. And there you are, a pirate, a merchant's son, dressed in your ready order, waiting for the final touches.

It makes you giddy, this lovely feeling of a lawful blasphemy.

"No, Captain! You can't wear a cotton tie with this kind of suit!"

You've been standing like a mannequin for the last hour or so. A tailor has long been dismissed as "an old-fashioned stitcher". You start to regret calling the Magician for assistance.

The Doctor sits by, fully clothed, some red flower in his lapel. For him, it seems like the years of working for nobility had their merit.

"Listen, Doctor, how do they manage to wear that stuff every day?"

His smile is thin as a shaving cut.

"I'm afraid it is in the blood, zir."

The Magician hums sifting through the tie fabrics and finally arranges something silken and white on your long-suffering neck.

"There. Quite... Passable."

A few heads peep into the room. You see their approving nods. The Cannoneer clasps their hands to their cheeks.

"Why "passable"? I think it's simply dazzling!!!"

The Magician takes off his gloves with an air of a surgeon after a long and difficult operation.

"Would be even more dazzling if somebody," A cold glare. "bothered to visit a barber. Anyway, my job here is done. Now it is up to you, dear Doctor, to pass this Siberian bear for a sophisticated man."

You stand by the shop. The fabric of your suit feels like raw wood. Some crew member rearranges the herbs in the basket. The Cannoneer shifts the bloodied sack from one shoulder to another.

The Doctor takes out his watch.

"Two past six."

The cab arrives in a minute, neat and black as Doctor's top hat. The coachman stacks your supplies on the roof and keeps the servile silence as you get in.

 

The Doctor doesn't dissuade you from touching the leather upholstery, or tapping the socket of a gilded Lamentable Relic above the window. He simply watches, patient and knowing.

The road seems endless. You try to look out of the window, but see only the milky fog, thick and soft just like at zee. You lean back, trying to fight the familiar uneasiness.

The hoofs clatter against the pavement. The harness clinks. The cab sways slightly, just like your hammock, lulling both of you to sleep.

You start dreaming of musky air and warmth, so unusual for the unforgiving zee. The Aestival sands glisten, beckon...

_Stay, stay... It's a good death, a sunny death._

A pitch doesn't give you a pleasant waking.

Something clunks against the roof twice. The coachman apologizes to someone and flings the door open.

You see the straw mane, then the shoulders, then the full body of another club member. They glance at you, exasperated. The feeling of a long and thorough dressing is stuck in their hair.

_A lion packed into a suit. Ridiculous but still perfectly capable of tearing you into shreds._

They plop into their seat and stretch out a hand to their companion.

He doesn't prickle your heart. He runs a long needle through it, drawing a thread through the spasming muscle.

He seems even smaller now. His face is wrinkled, expressionless. The right half is burnt with Gant.

Out of all the thoughts storming in your poor skull the stupidest one is the loudest.

_This tie becomes him very well._

"I don't remember you from the Club, zir," - says his companion, the tiniest pitch of irritation in their voice.

The Doctor gives you a nudge.

"Oh, I've joined it only recently."

A short pause. 

"Where do you work?"

"At the Zee. I'm the captain of a merchant-vessel."

Their voice livens up. Their face doesn't.

"A captain, eh? So am I! And a gentleman next to you?"

"My ship surgeon."

"Neat. This is my first mate."

He finally raises his head, looks somewhere between the two of you, nods, smiles. The Captain's expression shows sated pride of having something that took terribly long to get.

"Would you like some tobacco, gentlemen? No? Well, suit yourselves."

All you can do is watch as the Navigator unbuttons his dining jacket, rolls up his shirt and extricates one of the small ivory drawers located in his ribcage.

He takes out a piece of chewing tobacco and holds it as the Captain takes a bite. Their lips graze his fingers. He winces.

The Doctor does his best to plug the silence. He chats with this... this... person all the way to your destination. You haven't seen him so courteous since the whole Anarchists affair.

The Navigator sits still and quiet. His gaze is fixated on his gloved hands.

When you leave the cab, the Doctor takes you by the elbow and whispers in your ear.

"It was quite obscene, zir."

"What, the tobacco shtick?"

Somehow, he holds himself from rolling his eye.

"The way you were staring at him, zir."

"Did you see his face?!"

"Zir."

"Did you notice what..."

"Zir! Listen to me, would you?"

The words run you through. You stand dumb, as he brushes your shoulders, adjusts your tie and continues in the usual cotton-soft voice:

"You will go inside and won't look at him until, or during this dinner. Afterwards, there will be the conversation hour and _then_ you'll have a word with him. Did you understand me, zir?"

You can only nod. He smiles and escorts you to the open door.

The music is warming.

 

Captain Ives sits in the wheelchair, legs covered by a blanket: crude, ambiguous shapes that kill any glimpses of curiosity in mid-flight.

The butler stands behind his back, tall and fit like a dinner candle.

"Give it to me, don't keep the old man waiting!"The Captain unties your sack, sniffs sharp and deep. "Oh the smell, the smell! I miss it so. And the quality is superb."

He grows wistful as the cook takes your supplies away. You are dismissed to the pallor.

"Oh, good evening, Captain Ree! Brought your curio again? Perhaps I should ask for some smelling zalt for sensitive ladies?"

Whilst the captains chat about nothing, the butler stands aside, whispering to the Navigator, all friendly pats and gentle grins. He is visibly uncomfortable.

The Doctor urges you to go.

 

The ladies' shoulders glisten in the electric light - yellowish and translucent as amber. Their chokers are pure drowning pearls. The gentlemen smile in familiar colors. 

They wait in small groups, listening. The hour is filled with tales.

Some captain tells the chilling story of her trip to Wisdom. The audience leans to her like prisoners to cell-bars.

A comely man whispers something about his dalliance with the devil and produces three stolen bottles.

"Fresh from Hell. Can you guess which one is mine?"

Captain Ree sits in the center of a meager crowd, speaking, gesturing. The Navigator stands by.

You let go of the Doctor's elbow.

"I have no more tales to tell. I have only gifts."

They nod. The Navigator repeats the manipulation with his clothing and opens one drawer.   

_Good Lord or Lady, he seems exhausted._

"Well, who would like a gift?"

Some young boy raises his hand.

"That's a beautifully crafted illusion. May I take a look?"

Ree bares their fangs in a disdainful semblance of a human smile.

"Well, of course, _zir_."

He peeps into every drawer, he all but shoves his head into the empty abdomen... He pales, sways. The Navigator finally notices him.

A faint movement of the gloved hand. He places a tiny zalt vial under the boy's nose.

The elder guests laugh softly. Silly child, probably never zailed past Salt Lions.

Navigator smiles and gives him a chip of Scintillack.

"Are you all right, zir?"

A flavorless servile voice. 

The boy edges away, eyes wide and terrified.

Some bearded gentleman puts on his glasses, looks Navigator in the eye, tsks.

"Immensely good work."

Every listener gets something - a Scintillack, a piece of zee-beast's tooth, a beautiful pebble...

"What about you, zir?"

You flinch. You step towards him and dip your fingers into the drawer, barely brushing against his ribs.

_Do you remember their movement under the skin? Do you remember his breath?_

He looks at you with an expression of blank hospitality...

The Doctor grabs you by the elbow, but you manage to grasp your gift - a tiny sapphire the size of a pea.

"Dinner is served, zir."

You try to focus on food, for there are things to focus on: cakes cowered with powdered sugar, Black Pudding, the Surface fruits, the kind one only sees in honey-dreams.

And meat.

Steaks and rissoles, sizzling, straight from the pan, meat pies covered with beaten eggs, boiled tongues, roasts with prunes and walnuts, steaming soups...

A bit too much for your company, but it only means more leftovers for beggars, who'd pat their bellies and lick their fingers, thanking Captain Ives for his generosity. Never questioning the source of such riches.

You put some meat croquettes on your plate. Your stomach growls, definitely not pleased. You ignore it. You need your body and mind sharp for the talking hour.

Captain Ree pours some gravy on their mashed potatoes. Navigator folds a napkin into an abstract shape.

The Doctor gently kicks you in the calf.

You turn away.

 

The servants clean the tables. Some of them wrap bits and pieces up for themselves. Nobody minds.

The guests wander around the mansion, speaking, laughing. Now and then, you hear the glasses chink.

You look around, searching. The Doctor emerges from thin air and gestures for you to bend down to him.

"Zir, do you hear me? Don't lose your head! He is by the third column. See? His captain is talking to Ives. There is a safe place for you to speak. The second floor. Third room to the right."

You shake his hand, muttering urgent thanks. He waves you off and goes to refill his glass.

You try to join Navigator unnoticed... And fail miserably. Lord or Lady blast it all, you are as good at concealment as you are at private dining. Perhaps you should spend some time writing those skills into...

"How is it on the "Czar"?"

"Good. The Doctor heals. The Cannoneer works on some new gun. The Magician trysts with the Cannoneer's rival. All is well, and all manner of things is well."

There is no response.

"Oh, and we changed the type of prey: we hunt pirate vessels now."

Technically, the sound he makes counts as laughing.

"But didn't change your diet."

Thank all the Gods, he doesn't look at you.

"So... What about you?"

He scans the crowd for his

_Owner._

Captain.

"I am fine, zir, thank you."

Ree stops laughing. They look ready to leave... And then, Captain Ives says something more and the conversation resumes.  

The Navigator steps back to the wall. He twists the drawer-knob nervously. You whisper about the room.

"You can join me in five minutes, if you wish to talk."

There is no indication that he hears you.

 

The room is small and bare - just some old furniture with the passageway to an open window. Nowhere to pace. The time stre-e-e-e-etches like molten glass.

One minute.

You don't ask yourself how Unearth he managed to get himself into such predicament. The Chapel of Lights showed you many ways, and too many captains who would happily use them. After all, it's not much of a work, replacing the tendons with wick, muscles with wax, and sealing the whole business with glyphs.

 

You don't ask yourself, if he wants to talk. You know the Drowned Man's flock. You understand how hard it is, to live bursting with crimson truth, _especially_ when your hunger is buried alive under all the drawers.

The real question is: when it comes to it, what can you really do to help him?

You brush the dust off the ancient sofa. You don't want to think about...

_Fraternizing with the Officer of another captain is a..._

Bad taste. You know. You merely want to talk to him. Besides, you've always had bad taste. In men, especially. Courteous, conscientious, and crawling with Terrors - a rare kind, but pleasant to wake up with.

_If life is a theater, then you are the one to applaud the supporting actors._

Not everyone should go for primas, right?

The door creeks open.

 

He fumbles with his bow-tie and finally managed to undo it. The servile smile melts away from his face.

"Is there Zee behind the window? No! No... I don't want to see..."

You ask him to explain, as calmly as it's humanly possible.         

"This tattoo erased my memories. My Captain used many good methods to for it to stop tormenting me. All of them worked."

You take a chair and put it on the floor. You invite him to sit and tell you everything from beginning to end.

He takes a deep breath.

"First, they cut out my entrails and allowed the sigil to consume me. I survived that. Well... In some way, I did. Then, they used Gant to rid me of the blasted thing."

His voice is smooth and dull.

_Good Lord or Lady... How long has he been meaning to say that?_

_"_ A-and then, when my body couldn't take it anymore, they ensured that I was properly mummified. Though they were a bit late."

He takes off his gloves.

His fingers are black as scorched branches. He clenches them, and the soot-like flakes fall to the floor.

"I'm a coward, you know. I thought about escaping to Venderbight... After all, I've died so many times... But I'm afraid of dying for good."

The zalty wind enters the room. He raises his head, suddenly alert.

"I won't take another trip to Zee. But I have where to stay - Ritree's family is kind, very kind..."

You wait. He says nothing more. You think... The idea of his release lies on the very top of your thoughts, far, unreachable...

You can come back. You can come before this Captain, take him away from the Shepherd Isles and get him to the Clathermonts.

_It won't change anything. This... shivering wreck will still exist on the other page of this world._

The only way to help him is for Ree to never to find him...

"Navigator... What if I buy you from them?"

He smiles; the rays of wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

"You don't know Ree, zir."

He puts his gloves on.

"Anyway, it was nice to see you again. Goodbye."

You barely open your mouth to speak.

"Please, Captain. Don't make me beg, I'm sick of it. I have nothing. I am nothing. There are good men on your ship. There is a good navigator in Port Carnelian."

You reach for him. You tell him about the Invictus Token. Trying frantically to put the concept to his understanding, you lay out this foolish, desperate, idiotic plan.

He stands, hand still on the door knob. His face is completely expressionless.

"If half of what you say is true, it explains quite a lot..."

You look at him. Doesn't he trust you?

He sighs. You hear the drawers creak. 

"I trust you, Captain. I trust you."

 

* * *

 

They are musing over chess when you put your hand on their shoulder.

"Captain… May I speak with you?"

You regret it all as soon as they turn to you.

_Spit it out, before they find some other perfect remedy for your worries._

"In private."

Reluctantly, they apologize to their partner and promise a later match. The rubbery man hangs his tentacles and plods away with a portable chessboard. He seems dreadfully miserable.

"A funny fellow." The Captain dips their fingers into their hair.  "Yes... Funny..."

You don't ask anything. Their preferences have long ceased to even disgust you.

"Captain... You see… I… I’ve decided to change vessels.”

They look up at you, immensely bored. And for that you've called them away from their game?

"You remember what the embalmer said about zee, Navigator."  Slowly, patiently, as if speaking to a child who is about to throw a tantrum. "You can’t…"

"I do… I would like to change vessels with the help of the Invictus Token."

You note (or you imagine) some shade running across their face.

“Invictus Token is just a trinket.” A sudden change of the voice, but they smooth it out. “A medal of honor for the Captains who served well.”

“Then where did you get the empty box from?”

They glare at you.

“The blue box with the golden butterfly on…”

Their hands roll into fists. The mane rises, like that of an enraged beast.

 “Have you been snooping through my things?”

_Don't let them intimidate you. If everything goes well it can be the last time you see something like this._

“Captain, I _hold_ most of your things.”

They are taken aback, probably trying to think of some other way to make you feel like a trustful fool...

_The time is right._

"Anyway. This is the captain of the vessel I’d like to work on. Discuss it with him."

You are about to leave when they catch your hand. The grip is nonchalant, but the promise of a twist is still there. You shake it off. The look of utter surprise on their face is worth a thousand treasures.

They look each other in the eye. Finally, Ree reaches into their pocket and takes out a box of matches.

"Does any of you know where to have a smoke?"

 

* * *

 

 

The small speckles of smokers are spotted across the darkness. The terrace is nearly empty. You ask some lady for a smoke...

_The Doctor will kill you if he finds out._

And join the Captain.

They stand looking over the distant zee. The puffs of smoke they make seem jagged.

"Do you have a log-entry from the beginning of this day?"

You sure do. As well as a knife somewhere under this wooden suit.

"Do you?"

They nod.

"How did you come to know my first officer?"

"He used to work for me several years ago. We were on good terms. His understanding of the zee was - and still is - excellent. Probably, he is..."

"The best first officer you've ever had."

Their gaze is fixed on black waves and black shore.

"Look, I'm willing to pay you whatever it may take, to hire someone of his skill."

"Where did you get the meat for our feast?"

You blink. Such questions are not allowed inside the Club, and they know it better than you do.

"That's not a very polite thing to ask."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm only trying to understand why you have more rights to possess this Officer than I do."

At last you can hear their anger and see their teeth.

"Have you sacrificed a strong, healthy zailor for a vague hint? Have you descended Frostfound with him unconscious on your shoulder? Have you zailed to the middle of nowhere to conduct this Gods damn rite?"

"No. I haven't. To be honest... I had only had one tryst with him before he left."

"Why did he leave?"

"Cause I'm a cannibal and a pirate."

They snort.

"Not much of a knight in shining armor, are you?"

They take a deep draw on their cigarette. The smoke flows out of their mouth and nostrils. A comparison crosses your mind, too cliché to be put into...

"I know that I'm the dragon."

It's starting to make you very uncomfortable. They grin. The corners of their mouth twitch.

"I had one tryst with him too. If you can call that a tryst. There. In Kingeater's. He... He hates it when I touch him now. But, I simply can't help it... It's just so..."

You don't know what to say. If there is something of a poet left in you, it's imagination. You don't want to see, you don't, you _don't_...

Something glistens in the corners of their eyes.

"Tell me something, for Gods' sake! I don't know, anything, how you lost your Invictus Token, how you got in there, just don't make me think!"

It's not terribly hard to recollect. Much harder to forget.

"I was a young, greedy fool. I sold my Cannoneer to the Gardens. I broke my Doctor’s spine. I ate the dream-snake laced with the flesh of my Magician. In the end, I even devoured all my crew... Not for any profit..."

"Then what for?"

"To see what beautifully stringed words this place had to offer."

They look at the stone tiles. Shaken? Or understanding?

"What then?"

"I limped back to London. I counted Echoes on my barren ship. And then I decided that, if I have to leave this place an empty wasteland to succeed, I’d rather be a lawless coward. I gave up my Invictus Token and used the logbook to rewrite myself. I added just a couple of letters into the lines of the world, but it was enough for us to remain hidden, for..."

"For your weapons to fire without a single flaw. I know."

They tap the spot above their left eye.

_Of course. The foresight. The constant air of danger._

"Sometimes the knowledge your Officers can offer is just not enough, huh?"

"What about you?"

"What about me? Just a trip to the Empire of Hands. A very bad trip it was. Mists. Zee-beasts. Mutiny. Hunger. I returned with two wounds, a battered ship, and five people of crew. All of us packed with strange cravings. I've decided - if I have already crossed the line, what else is there to lose."

They snuff their cigarette out on the railing - a burning dot to their phrase. They look at the false sky.

"So... Did it feel any better when you started all over?"

"Yes and no. Sometimes it's a little hard, knowing all the torn out pages."

A burst of laughter from their parlor. They turn around - swift like an alerted animal.

"Midnight. We shall come back on midnight. Let's meet on Shepherd Isles, say... Dang, he has my logbook."

They stride towards the stained glass door. You do your best to keep up with them.

 

* * *

 

They enter the parlor and head to you. You twitch, merely from force of habit.

You look from his face to their, trying to guess the outcome. A well-known movement of the hand, and you give them the logbook.

"On Shepherd Isles on the 19th of July. We'll talk over the payment once we get there."

_Oh Gods... It couldn't have worked... This... He couldn't have talked them into it._

You don't know what you feel. Something akin to what the prisoner of the Gardens might feel upon release.

Empty freedom. Nobody is going to come and hang over you as you work, or keep you prisoner with zee beckoning right outside the window...

_So what are we going to do now? What are we going to do?_

Whatever you want.

He doesn't shine, like you expected him to. The pause turns way too long. Finally, he notices the Doctor, and you feel the excuse to leave swirl in his brain. 

"Wait."

Ritree straightens out some unruly page.

"I want to speak with him."

He looks at you, hesitant. You nod.

_It's alright, you may._

He glances over his shoulder several times. Maybe, he expects Ree to lash out on you, but all they do is wrap their arm around your shoulders and turn your back to him. They take your hand, and when they are about to cover it with their free palm, you extricate yourself.

You take off the glove, then extend your hand again. They stare at blackened fingers and spotted fingernails. Their smile is shaky and embarrassed.

"What did you want to talk with me about?"

"I only wanted to wish you luck. I'm going to miss you, you know... We've come a long way, didn't we?"

A clever use of your abraded conscience. You practically feel it nag.

_They did help you, did they not? They've done more for you than all your captains put together._

"Listen, I can make it there sooner than him. I can pick you up. I can do the Gant thing. I can be honest and sincere, you like that, right?"

A kind of wink that would buy you on the spot if you were a few years younger and a few organs richer.

"We can rewrite everything, can make it work..."

You keep the guilt down, just enough to look them in the eye.

"Make what work?"

They seem to forget how to breath.

_Keep talking, keep talking till they remember themselves._

"Captains and their first mates can be partners. Friends. Even lovers. Who were we, Ritree?"

The name does it. Their eyes light up, but somehow, they keep their voice down.

"I am the person who has done everything just to keep their first mate alive. You think that pirate would bother running around the city to get you some Gant? Or hiring an embalmer to keep this old flesh fresh? Ask every single captain in this room what they'd do with the Officer who is such a burden, and they'd answer: why, throw them out, of course!"

They press their forehead against yours.

"And don't you _dare_ to whine about the Kingeater's Castle. I _saw_ that you enjoyed it."

You are filled with the scent of their breath.

_No._

You care nothing about the Doctor and the Captain chatting in the far corner of the room. You've waited too long to pour it all out.

"You don't know about me? Fine, I shall tell you."

You open the drawers one by one and pile their contents on the floor as you speak, caring nothing for the most fragile specimens.

"I was the man who begged you on his knees to get to another point of this bloody journey!"

What is it? A warm notebook with golden letters? You toss it to their feet.

"I was the man who was so delirious with pain that he allowed you to use and devour him - and hated every minute of it!"

Strategic Information? Moves in the Great Game? Port Reports? To hell with them all.

"Now, I'm not even human. And neither, are, you!"

A glass mask? Smashed to glittering pieces.

The guests start to leer at you.

"And I really wonder how your wife ended up with you, or that little monster of yours. She has done nothing to deserve it."

Finally, you take out the drawers. They make the most satisfying sound as they hit the floor.

Ree makes no movement to stop you. They simply stare: helpless and... Afraid? No, no, merely shocked.

_They never knew that you'd do something like this. Hell, what do they even know about you?_

Nothing. Nothing at all.

You reach your Captain without ever looking back.

 

* * *

 

Nobody asks questions on the "Czar". There are few zailors left who remember him. The Magician salutes him with the hook. The Cannoneer shakes his hand with such energy that you're afraid it'll turn to dust.

"I knew you'd come back! Oh, you're right, I didn't."

You gather all officers around in a semicircle. He chooses to stand aside.

"Gentlemen, I have to come back. On the 19th of July."

The Magician laughs.

"Why not on the day London fell?"

The Doctor glares at him, exasperated.

"So... Is there anything you wish to pass? Anyone?"

The Cannoneer raises their hand like an obedient student. You nod.

"Does it have anything to do with the Navigator?"

"Yes. Yes, it does. Any more questions?"

A shrug. There is no usual "Tell him to check the tube, he knows which one", or "Remind him to use more powder", or "Morphine. Medium vial, Virginia company."

To your greatest relief, they start to drift apart.

 

You two sit at your cabin, waiting. Eleven o'clock. He looks around.

There are few changes: a bunch of lamentable relics, and several odd looking figurines, perhaps.

You pace the room. You really should have asked someone for another cigarette. You imagine the Doctor, another emotionless rant about your lungs, take out the coffee mill and pour a handful of grains into it. The scent calms you better than the finest tobacco.

"How does it work, anyway?"

You stop grinding.

_You wish you knew._

Maybe, the token is one of Bazaar's jests. Maybe, it's the gift of Gods. Maybe, the world you leave behind remains a frozen picture. Maybe, it just disappears. But that doesn't really matter.

What matters is what he wishes to hear.

"You fall asleep, and wake up in the old world."

He senses the hesitance in your voice, but smiles anyway.

"Then...Maybe you can show me to my cabin?"

"You can stay here, if you want."

_Oh Gods..._

He doesn't even tense _,_ he _submerges_ like a terrified zee-beast. He touches the place where one of the drawer knobs used to be and watches as his fingers sink into the emptiness beneath the cloth.

"That's not what I meant... Navigator!"

He flinches and looks at you.

"I'll sleep in the chair, I'm used to it. Don't you worry."

He gets into your hammock without a single word. It barely sways. You hear him tossing and turning, as you boil yourself a good cup of coffee.

"It's nice."

You turn to him. You study the wrinkles, the dark circles under the closed eyes... The embalmer did their best, but they couldn't avoid the haggardness. 

"The smell. Makes one feel at home."

Yes, it always does.

He stares at the ceiling, crumpling the blanket in his hands.

"Captain... If I'm going to ask about my memories - don't listen. Just burn the damn sigil out, and that's it. I'm really better off not knowing."

He doesn't say anything else. By the time they strike twelve, he is quietly, breathlessly asleep.

You look into your logbook and take a penny out of your pocket - the tentacle-wrapped anchor glistens in the faint light.

_"19th of July 1888. 9 o'clock. Sighted the enemy vessel."_

You balance the coin and give it a spin.

It doesn't fall.

It turns, and turns, and turns, till you cabin becomes a bleak cloud of colors. You don't look to see what happens to the Navigator. You don't want to see.

Your eyelids feel heavy. The darkness beneath them is solid. The shuffle of a spin grows quieter, and soon dissolves into...

_A puff of steam and a turn of the page._


	8. Shepherd Isles - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Rating: G

Your heart is pounding with heavy pain. You sit up and do your best to breathe it out.

The details of your nightmare flee you - the terror too vivid and detailed to be squeezed into a few hours of troubled sleep...

The pain wakes up. You crawl towards the windowsill, find a tiny box. You open the lid and nearly grind the dried herbs into dust while trying to get them to your mouth.

Another reason to leave this place with the first ship. They don't have any _real_ medicines on this island. Only stories.

_But your sigil is already fed up with them, isn't it?_

You look out of the window, practically hopeless. Mist lies on Fieldhaven, thick as fleece. The waves of grass rustle. Two grand shapes sway slightly in port.

You blink, then look again.

The shapes are still here.

_Two vessels, **two** after all these months when you haven't seen as much as a boat on this Gods forsaken island._

You dart towards the docks.

Some zailors limp by, hunched with the weight of a great heartmetal construction. The person who follows them raises the collar and bits down on the cigarette - the day is chilly.

"Excuse me, zir?''

They don't even glance at you.

"Madam?"

They pass. Something about them makes you cringe. The feeling is strong, as strong as when it tells you the zee's latest whim _._

_You wouldn't want to serve on the same ship with them._

You step aboard the other vessel and look around. An ambiguously gendered individual watches the procession with the grief of a parent being robbed of their only child.

"Excuse me..."

They turn around. Their eyes are a bit puffy from crying.

"Do you know where the Captain is?"

"There..." They sniff.  "In his cabin."                                              

They take a handkerchief from their pocket and turn away.

You are about to go belowdecks when they reach you with the agility of a soul-stealing ape. They stare at you, tears immediately dry.

"It's you... It's you, isn't it?"

"I... I beg your pardon?"

They yell so loud that your sigil seems to jump out of your skin.

"Fellows! Fellows! The Navigator is back!"

An exasperated sigh from beneath the stairs.

"Which Navigator?"

"The Nervous Navigator! Come, come, TAKE A LOOK!"

_Gods, can they be quiet for a few seconds?_

Slow footsteps. A man climbs on deck, small and white as a sad mushroom. Glances at you, smiles.

"And I was afraid that you meant the sly one."

Behind his back, another gentleman combs the tip of the moustache with his hook.

"Nice tattoo."

They all stare at you, surveying, waiting.

_That's what you've always feared._

You mumble that you are glad to see them too, apologize and make your way down the stairs.

_Please let this ship have classic cabin placement, please, please..._

You try to walk confidently. You don't do well. You feel them watching you from afar, whispering...

_The sick bay, the Officers' quarters, some richly stocked cabin, and..._

There is light coming from the Captain's cabin.

You step inside.

 

"Close the door."

The Captain looks at you with a how-can-I-help-you type of grin. The sigil's jaws snap shut, catching your head in process. You groan and lean against the doorframe.

_Of course it had to happen right now._

The man sees your face, helps you to sit down and leaves the cabin. The sounds dig new wrinkles through your brain. Who is tormenting the engines?

_Squeak. Thud. Squeak. Thud._

The Captain's palm rests on your shoulder. He hands you a cup full of iodine-colored liquid. You can practically feel the heavenly bitter taste, the relief and joy of long painless hours…

_No work, of course._

You shake your head (well, move it an inch before the sigil starts grumping).

He nods, puts the cup gently on the table and whispers:

"What..."

_Squeak. Thud. Squeak. Thud._

He glares at the wall, then slams his fist into it. The noise dies out. He continues, his voice even lower than before.

"What brings you here?"

_May Gods bless this man._

"I... let me guide your ship. I know all the zee, how it was, how it will be. Please... the headaches only stop when I'm working."

_Hopeless, it's all quite hopeless... You failed the first impression._

He smiles, takes a bunch of papers out of his drawer and gives them to you. He squeezes your hands briefly.

"Welcome on board."

You crumple the Echoes absent-mindedly in your pocket. The Captain's face is familiar, way too familiar...

"Thank you, Captain..."

You scratch the sigil. It shivers and aches, but doesn't allow the name to slip into your mind.

The Captain is already by the door, eager to show you to your cabin.

"Oh, and, by the way, would you dine with me tonight at, say, seven o'clock?"

He definitely knows you.

"With pleasure, zir."

 

The chair creaks with the slow movement of the vessel. The ceiling bolts shine in the lamplight. You know that, if you lie on the bunk, it will feel slept in.

_The place knows you too._

And people... they are, thank Gods, too busy for a chat.

The work drowses the pain enough for occasional attempts to remember.

The name of the Captain haunts you, like a half-ruined message in a bottle. You manage to fight a few letters away from the sigil.

_A....d...._

Andrew? Close, pretty close, but still not quite right.

You have to check the course thrice.

 

The dinner is a bit late. Not that you mind much.

The cabin is warm and known, damn it, known from the polished lamentable relic to the swaying hammock that particularly bothers you.

_Seems cozy to lie in, skin to skin._

The scent of the dish bubbling on the stove finishes you.

_Some recipe from the Surface. Rich. Red._

Even the tune he hums, _the way_ he hums it is about to make your head burst.

When he puts a full bowl before you, you grab his sleeve. You care nothing for the courtesy, or the rank, or any other sophisticated rubbish... All that matters now is this bloody pain.

"Captain, please, it's torture! The people, the ship... I served here, didn't I? This damn thing, it burned all my memories away, but it seems to me that I even knew your name, you real name, I mean... "A", "d", and something in between. What was it, my Captain? How did I come to know?"

He puts his hand on your clutched fingers, but doesn't pry them away.

"Andrey. It's my real name. I told it myself one night in this very hammock."

_Gods... You couldn't have..._

You should be flattered. Instead, you are appalled. What have you told this man for him to...

"I... Zir, I'm sorry... I think I'd better..."

His grip turns firmer.

"No. It was good. You were good. And it was a good year when you served here."

He does an awfully good job at sounding sincere.

"Why did I leave?"

"I don't know. Something bothered you, but you kept it to yourself."

You pick up a fork, then put it back. Everything he told you... Too much, but still terribly not enough.

"Listen, I know a person in London who can rid you of this thing."

You avoid his gaze. It makes you wonder...

_If he looked at you this way back then, how did you even manage to leave this ship?_

"And what about my memories?"

He hesitates. Smiles.

"I'll tell you what I can."

He can tell you whatever the hell he wants. There is no guarantee he won't make everything up as he goes, and you have no choice but to listen. Besides, for some reason...

You actually want to trust him.

 

* * *

 

 

He shuns the Doctor's remedies all the way to London.

"I've got to keep my mind clear. For the work," he whispers as the sigil pulses, plum-colored.

But still you come to him, not for the lessons, just to tell him all that you can about his past. He listens, smiles weakly.

"You bring them back, zir. They are faint, so faint... Maybe I only imagine them. But anyway... Thank you."

He shakes your hand, looks at his fingers as you let go, then clenches his fist.

_You'll be in Wolfstack Docks in ten days._

 

Lily Clathermont welcome you. They all do: the tangled Fingerkings around her navel, the roses on her ribs, the radiant sun above her breasts. A beaming face shines over them.

"Good morning, miss. Can you help to get rid of a tattoo?"

She blinks.

"Why, that's an odd request for two zailors!"

He groans - the sigil moves its tendrils. You pat his shoulder, look at him concernedly. It seems to let go.

"But can you do it?"

She smiles and rises from the counter.

"I didn't say we can't. They come all the time: ladies who got bored with plain designs, youths who wish to marry "clean". That's something I will never understand: why marry someone who's willing to dump you over some..."

She stops. Her smile is gone. She reaches for the Navigator's sigil - a sorrow-spider  spreading its legs over his temple. The drawn red eyes glisten.

_Thank goodness Doctor is not here._

As soon as her fingertips touch the skin, she jolts back, shrieks.

"It burns!"

The spider dips its legs into her mouth.

"Zirs, I... Excuse me..."

She disappears behind the curtain. Its wooden beads rattle. You hear frantic whispers - a bunch of school-girls snitching to their teacher.

The Navigator touches his sigil nervously.

"It's cool."

He scratches it, trying to slam short nails deep under the skin. You put your palm on his wrist. He stops. Glances at you: a flash of terrified hope.

_That's going to work, right?_

You nod and smile. He seems to relax a little.

Mr. Clathermont raises the curtain. Looks over the Navigator. Huffs.

"Chapel's work. Hm. Hm. Growing ain't it? Hm. Troubles with sleep? Pains? Nightmares?"

The Navigator livens up, clasps his hand; the man attempts to back away.

"Yes! Yes, all of it! Do you know what it is? Can you remove it? Can you return my memories?"

Clathermont's moustache moves like that of a thinking walrus.

"Hm... Can't recover the memories. And the price for the removal..."

You allow yourself to interfere.

"We have money."

"Hm... Well then, follow me, zir."

They both vanish into the curtain, talking, gesturing. They forget all about Lily and you.

 

You pace the room. You've looked through every album so many times that all the butterfly wings and tiger stripes have nearly made you sick. There is no clock in this damn room.

"Don't worry, zir." Lilly nibbles on a dragée as she speaks.  "Mister C knows lots. He will help your...?"

"Friend."

She smiles. Yellow candy is stuck between her jaws. A swift movement of a tongue, and it's gone.

"Right."

Another five minutes pass.

"Wanna hear a story?"

You do. As good a distraction as any.

Lily chirps about some gentlemen who visited their pallor twenty times ("must be a spy"), about crying zee-captains, about officers with clenched teeth, about a fair lass with a butterfly on her cheek...

"Oh, what work I've done on her! What work _she_ wanted done! What visions! And her ankles! And her thighs!"

She tries to explain, but words fail her. All you manage to grasp is something about soot-black fur and emerald jungle. She sighs dreamily.

"Hope she'll want more."

She goes quiet. You sit in a creaky armchair, slowly, surely drifting asleep with her low humming.

 

The voices behind the curtain are quiet. The pauses are long. You open your eyes.

The Navigator stands before you, pale and exhausted. On his temple a Gant-colored sigil remains like an old fire-brand scar. It doesn't pulse. It doesn't grow.

You hand Clathermont the entire pay the Venturer has given you and add a generous tip. You don't care, Gods damn it all, you don't care!

The man's moustache bends with a grin.

"Goodbye, zir." Lily pops another candy into her mouth. "And goodbye to your... Friend."

You swear that Clathermont puts his hand on her hip as you leave.

 

The Navigator walks by your side, silent, lost in thought, listening intently to his own body. You barely manage to keep up with him.

"So, how was that?"

He flinches. Looks at you. Seems to struggle to remember your face and name. His expression clears up a little.

"Painful. The thing was stubborn. It fought to devour the most recent memories till the very end."

"And what about the headache?"

He frowns.

"It's gone, I think... I'm not quite sure yet..."

He doesn't say a word till you reach his very cabin. There, he rummages through his working table, flips through notebooks, unfolds the dusty sheets, shakes his head, mumbles, searches again... Finally, he opens a tiny book the size of a pocket bible. The Cosmogone lines shine. Their reflections quiver in his eyes like distant candles.

"Here. For all the trouble."

You try to wave it off, to call the whole affair a gift for the good service. He looks you dead in the eye and simply puts the thing into your vest pocket.

"Please... It's not that I don't trust you. I simply hate to be in debt."

_Suspicious Officers live long._

You feel like you are going to have a devil of a time talking this rule out of his blood. You give the book a tiny pat: it warms you through the cloth.

"Fine. May I at least invite you to drink to this thing's death?"

_Lord, is he calculating the price of the wine?_

"Yes... Of course you may."

 

He is uncharacteristically jolly (or maybe the mushroom wine is very good). He tells you the stories picked at Shepherd Isles, smiling shyly.

_What nonsense, right?_

You fill in the gaps with your own misadventures.

The smile abandons him. He looks in the depths of the fungal liquid, sighs and empties his glass in one gulp.

"Zir... I've been wondering..."

His voice is even and blank.

"Do you wish to repeat this hammock thing?"

You put the raised glass on the table. The sound it makes seems way too loud. Something is wrong...

_You're hearing things. It's mere nervousness._

You listened to him enough to tell his nervousness from...

_Pal, you've been living off Catties for the last what? Three years? It ain't healthy, you know._

A pinch of fury?

_You're missing your chance. To be able to relive the first night, what couple wouldn't want that?_

You're not a couple. You've never been.

He wipes a drop of wine off the table.

"It's just... I used to like you quite a lot. I would like to remember why."

He sounds hesitant.

_Hesitant, only hesitant, not refusing. Besides, you can always come back if he doesn't..._

This weak little voice is drowned by another, sterner one that leaves you flinching.

_Don't you think he sounded the same way on Ree's altar?_

You regain your composure, finish the glass and speak as carelessly as you can.

"Maybe some other time. You've been through serious magic, mate, you're not in the best shape."

He nods, visibly relieved.

"So... What shall we do now?"

"Well, we can simply talk..."

He raises his eyes, grins, accustomed to people forgetting about his... _problem_. 

"I don't remember anything, zir."

You nudge him on the ribs.

"You remember your skills. And then, there's the whole zee to talk about."

His grin grows a bit more sincere.

_You can't possibly be serious?_

 

The hammock sways. The Wolfstack lights shine behind the porthole. You have just finished discussing the blasted jillyfleurs. You shift the arm that has long grown numb and move a pillow under his head. He turns a little, making himself comfortable. 

"They have the Flourishing's face..."

He stares at the ceiling, thinking.

"Did we really meet under this mask?"

"Yes, I was the locust, and you..."

"The moon-moth, yes. You told me."

_This is it, the perfect moment._

"I can show you the very room we met in. Of course, if they didn't fix the roof."

This stupid idea has been tormenting you since the day he returned.

He shrugs.

"Why not."

You offer to take him to Khan's Shadow, to the Mount Palmerston and back to London again. If he wants to, of course.

He squeezes your hand, eyes closed.

"About three months. Quite enough."

_It is. And even if he doesn't remember, there'll be something new for his poor brain to work on._

You allow yourself to kiss his temple. The Gant scar is cool and smooth as old bone. He smiles. Brushes his fingers against your cheek.

Suddenly, the words you've heard everywhere in the Zee - from your satisfied Engineer to the dock workers of London - start to make perfect sense.

_All indeed shall be well. And all manner of thing shall be well._

* * *

 

"Checkmate!"

Candy teeth between vinous lips. Agile fingers caress your black king. You can't help envying the poor blighter.

_Soon, soon... The dinner shall be over._

Your new and only First Mate watches the passing ladies, snorts.

"How banal!"

You watch her - angles, sharp lines. How long did she even spend on this dress?

Suddenly, she sits straight.

"Look at that hat! Doll-chips and roses! Excuse me!"

And off she goes, claws a-bare. The old ladies (you thought they would have fainted when she took her knife out to cut some cake) whisper over her cleavage. You sit for a while by those gossipers, yawn, rise to pour yourself some champagne. You hate the talking hours.

By the fountain, some person tsks and shakes their head.

"Outrageous."

You follow their gaze, expecting to see the Modiste's larkspur hat.

You don't.

All you see is your ex-Navigator with his captain. Both intoxicated. Both laughing. An odd thought strikes you deep.

_You've never seen him laugh for real._

The time on the altar was deranged. The dry, mechanical sound the Thing sometimes made was simply... _inhuman_.

It doesn't matter. It's all just a silly infatuation of your hungry youth. And the most important thing is...

_It never happened._

"...I accept many things. The rubbery-men, for example, they can give one a bonelessly good night."

Seems like the person next to you has been exploding with words for the last three minutes.

"But... Marrying your _Officer_? There should be some decency, don't you think?"

_By Gods..._

You fill another glass and go back to your sit next to the crones' nest. You can still see those two, chatting about something, Navigator's sigil reduced to a neat scar.

_So different from the bloated stain you gave him._

"Here I am? Did you miss me?"

She raps her fingernails on your shoulder. You flinch, try to think of some of the stupid flirty answers she adores... But she has already tracked your gaze.

"Who's that?"

"Nobody." Well, at least the beginning is true. "Just an old acquaintance of mine."

She squints, smiles.

"Sounds like a good story."

It is. You tell her everything from the beginning to an end, trying to sound emotionless and brisk. You don't want her to get jealous.

She raises her hand to stop you.

"Can you tell me all about that rite?"

You freeze. Little by little you start to speak, sincerely, trying to remember every detail - the way you never spoke to anyone, not even to your wife ( _especially_ not to your wife).

She listens, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Do you imagine a flush underneath her powder?

"Oh, my Captain, my dear... What a poet you are!"

Well, that was unexpected.

"The altar, the organs, the blood... What intimacy! What violation! This poor man, he doesn't remember any of it? Oh, good for him, good for him! I can hardly imagine one living in peace after sampling something like this."

You see her lips move and pop with every word. She opens her eyes - they are full of inspired fire.

_What ass you were thinking that you were attracted to that neurotic wreck._

"Oh, I should create a dress about it! Or a hat! Or a suit! Oh, my dear, dear Captain, will you take me there?"

You stare at her dumbfounded.

"The Kingeater's Castle. I wish to feel it myself, the silence, the cold marble."

Well of course you do. What wouldn't you do for her art?

"What a pity we can't recreate it completely. Oh, the limitations of human anatomy! Though... You can always come back, can't you?"

She falls silent for the rest of the evening. Her fingers twitch, hungry for the invisible stitches.

 

You notice them again, briefly, while descending the stairs. You call the Captain. He glances over his shoulder, and waits for you by the open cab door. The Navigator watches you warily.

_That chatterbox didn't lie._

Just two tiny strips of metal. You wonder if those are minted pirate doubloons.

You shake the Captain's hand, give him a wink.

"Congratulations, knight."

He notices the Modiste looming behind you... And winks back.

"Congratulations, dragon."

You will come by different cabs to different ships.

You will smile when a woman will disrobe herself quickly and sit in the bed, swearing, breaking pencils, throwing crumpled paper into the corner, screaming "Eureka!" into your sleeping ear.

You will smile when a man with no sigil on his face will sleep deeply by your side, knowing that when (if) some poor prisoner would moan, and sob, and beg deep under the floor he wouldn't listen.

And your smiles will be identical.


End file.
